


The Last Rose

by sneetchstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, fairy tale AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-22 19:59:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9623231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: Beauty and the Beast Ichabbie AU fairy tale.





	1. In Which a Discovery is Made

**Author's Note:**

> 'Tis the last rose of summer,   
> Left blooming alone;   
> All her lovely companions   
> Are faded and gone;   
> No flower of her kindred,   
> No rose-bud is nigh,   
> To reflect back her blushes,   
> Or give sigh for sigh. 
> 
> I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!   
> To pine on the stem;   
> Since the lovely are sleeping,   
> Go sleep thou with them.   
> Thus kindly I scatter   
> Thy leaves o'er the bed,   
> Where thy mates of the garden   
> Lie scentless and dead. 
> 
> So soon may I follow,   
> When friendships decay,   
> And from Love's shining circle   
> The gems drop away.   
> When true hearts lie wither'd,   
> And fond ones are flown,   
> Oh! who would inhabit   
> This bleak world alone?  
> -Thomas Moore (1779-1852)

Jenny Mills walks through the forest, enjoying the brisk winter air on her face. There is a fresh dusting of snow on the ground, and the crisp leaves underfoot make a satisfying crunch as she walks.

She's on her feet all evening in the inn where she works, yet she still enjoys a hike through the forest when she can snatch up an extra hour to do so. She looks up at the bare branches of the trees, swaying overhead, skeletal silhouettes against the gray sky.

A twig snaps to her left, and she stills, training her eyes in the direction of the sound. It could be a rabbit. Or it could be a wolf. Until she knows which it is, she will remain silent and still. There is a rustling amongst the underbrush, and Jenny decides it is a rabbit. She pulls a sling from her bag and finds a stone, still moving silently. If her aim is true, and it usually is, she will return home with dinner for her sister and herself.

She waits until the rabbit shows itself, with the patience she learned from Mr. Corbin, the man who took Abbie and her in after their parents died. She can hear his deep voice in her head as she steadies her slingshot. “Patience can mean the difference between eating and going hungry, Jenny.”

The rabbit appears, and Jenny releases the stone. It pegs the creature square on the head, stunning it. She runs over and snags the rabbit, deftly breaking its neck before placing it in the canvas bag she has slung over her shoulder. As she stands, she sees something she's never noticed before: a house. She thinks it's a house. It's definitely a building, and she reasons she's never seen it because she's never been in this exact spot when the trees were bare before.

Curious, she starts picking her way towards it, and a few yards away, finds an overgrown path.

A few minutes later, she approaches what is probably the largest house she's ever seen. It's not just a house. It's a manor. To her eyes, it may as well be a castle.

It also appears abandoned. The windows are dark, the cobblestone path overgrown. _Maybe Abbie and I could move out here. Sure beats our tiny rooms at the inn._ Her steps slow as she moves closer. The gate is hanging partially open, so she slips through, noting that it had been locked at one time, but time and disuse has rusted it.

Jenny walks slowly and silently, looking around. She catches a flash of movement in her periphery, but when she turns to look, sees nothing, her eyes searching the windows for signs of life. She shakes her head, dismissing it, and continues around the side of the house.

She stops dead in her tracks when she sees the back garden. It's huge, larger than the town square, and overgrown. The few statues are crumbling, covered in moss, or both. Bushes that likely were once well-groomed hedges, possibly even topiaries, are now squat abandoned green masses or disheveled tangles of bare branches.

All except for a large rosebush in the very center. Jenny walks towards it, drawn to it.

It's blooming, covered in beautiful red blooms that almost glow in the dim late autumn light. She softly gasps, continuing towards it. The red of the roses boldly stands out against the white snow dusting the leaves of the bush and on the ground, and when she is close enough to touch it, she reaches her hand out.

The next thing she knows, she is on the ground.

“Hey! What—?” she exclaims struggling under the weight of her assailant. She can't really see him, but he's heavy enough to pin her down and seems to be extremely strong despite his slender build. “Let me go!”

“Get out,” he snaps, roughly hauling her to her feet. “Go before I—”

His words are cut off by a surprisingly powerful punch that makes a squelchy _crack_ when it connects with his nose. He curses, doubling over for a second. Before she can dart away, he grabs her wrist.

“Don't touch me,” Jenny snaps, trying to pull away. He releases her with surprising quickness and she tumbles back, bumping into a statue.

It wobbles, and the top part tumbles to the ground. Startled, she looks down and sees that it appears to be a head of some sort. A woman.

A low growl makes her head snap back in the direction of the man, who Jenny now notices is completely cloaked, covered from head to foot. She can just make out his eyes, but the rest of his appearance is a mystery. The growl sounds like it came from him, but it _definitely_ did not sound human. “Do you have a dog?” she asks, momentarily distracted.

He grabs her upper arm. “That was a very valuable statue,” he rumbles, pulling her towards the house now. “You are trespassing and now you have destroyed my property.”

Jenny struggles, but he is much stronger than she is. Almost unnaturally so. “Let go of me!” she yells, trying ineffectively to free herself from his grasp. She does _not_ want to go into his house. “I wouldn't have broken your damn statue if you hadn't been trying to assault me!”

“I was not—” he snaps, but doesn't finish the sentence. He growls again in frustration, and without another word, hauls her inside.

“Let go of me!” she yells again, pulling so hard she nearly dislocates her shoulder.

“As you wish,” he answers, practically throwing her inside a room. He closes the door and locks it.

“Let me out!” she shouts, pounding on the door. “Let me out, you awful… beast!”

He is already heading towards his room to tend his nose, but he hears every word she yells.

 

xXx

 

Ichabod Crane carefully removes the cowl covering his face, wincing as he does so. The young woman had a surprisingly strong punch, and he vaguely remembers seeing blood on the snow. A quick inspection of his mask and face confirms the fact that she bloodied his nose.

 _Snout_ , he bitterly corrects himself, inspecting his hated face in the mirror. He pokes, prods, and decides it is not broken. He is thinking about finding something cold to put on his injured nose, when he hears it.

 _Of course._ His captive is trying to escape. He knows the windows are barred, but remembers he didn't remove the canvas bag slung across her body before locking her in, and he doesn't know what it contains.

He grabs his cloak and gloves from the chair and hastily puts them on, pulling the large hood up as he quickly walks back to her room.

The lock clicks and the door slowly opens just as he reaches it. Jenny peeks out. She curses under her breath when she sees him waiting for her. Not to be cowed, she straightens up and tries to peer into his hood. He turns his face slightly. “Why are you keeping me here?” she demands.

“I am trying to decide what to do about the damage you have done to my property,” he answers, still blocking the doorway. “Give me your bag,” he demands, holding out a gloved hand.

Her eyes narrow. “If you're going to kill me, then kill me. If you want something… else, then I promise you one of us will wind up dead, and I don't much care which one. Just make sure my body gets sent back to my sister.” She grudgingly thrusts her bag at him, conceding defeat.

“I am not going to harm you in any way,” he answers, horrified that she would think him to be the worst kind of cad. _I may be a beast, but I am an honorable one._ Of course, she does not know this, so he can't exactly fault her for her fears.

Jenny angles her head again, trying to see him. She believes him somehow, but she is still angry, wary, and defensive. And worrying about Abbie, who will surely be worrying about her by now. When he continues to keep his face hidden from her, she asks, “Who are you?” She thinks she catches a glimpse of his face, and it looks like nothing she's ever seen. “ _What_ are you?” she quietly gasps, the question escaping before she can rein it in.

“No one but a monster,” he answers, his voice surprisingly soft. Then he slams the door. He looks inside the bag and finds a dead rabbit, a small knife, a slingshot, and a flat stone with the impression of a fern on one side.

He frowns and takes the bag to the kitchen, pulling the rabbit out of the bag to place in the cold storage room before heading back outside.

He goes to the broken statue, picking up the head. “I am sorry, Mother,” he says, looking at her face. The stone has weathered and pocked with time, but he can still make out her features. He gently sets it on the base at the foot of the statue.

When he turns, he sees the rosebush. One of the blossoms has fallen from it, the petals already wilting on the snowy ground.


	2. In Which There is a Flashback

_The little bell hanging from the door emits a soft tinkle as Dr. Ichabod Crane enters the apothecary shop. He peruses the shelves, noting the new arrivals. With the advent of spring, there will soon be an increase in fresh herbs._ Nothing yet, however. 'Tis still too early.

_“One moment,” a soft voice calls from the back of the shop._

_“Do not rush on my account,” he answers, knowing the proprietress, Miss Katrina Van Tassel, will recognize his voice. She has become somewhat of a friend to the eccentric scientist, as he frequents her shop in search of supplies for his botanical research._

_“Dr. Crane!” Katrina does indeed rush out on hearing who it is in her shop. She spared herself a moment to check her appearance, wishing to look her best. For him._

_“Ah, good morning, Miss Van Tassel,” Crane greets, giving her a nod and a faint smile. He stands with his usual ramrod straight posture, his black wide-brimmed hat held loosely in one hand._

_She beams brightly and comes around from behind the counter. “With what can I help you today?” she asks._

_He turns and startles when she sees how close she is. “Oh!” He takes a half step back, subconsciously bringing his hat up between them like a shield, and says, “Mushrooms and hosta shoots.”_

_“I have a selection of mushrooms that just arrived,” she answers. “But they're in the back. You… may accompany me, if you like,” she invites._

_Crane clears his throat. Lately Miss Van Tassel's attentions have been a bit more… attentive than he would like. “Thank you, but I would very much like to continue perusing your shelves while you retrieve them,” he carefully answers._

_Her expression clouds, but she nods and disappears._

_Crane considers slipping out, but decides that would not only be cowardly, but would also mean leaving without the items he needs._

_He plucks a vial from the shelf, uncaps, and sniffs its contents. It is pleasantly sweet. “Hmm.”_

_“Extract of vanilla,” Katrina's voice explains. She's returned with a box, which she sets on the counter._

_“Indeed,” he agrees, knowing she has numerous sources for her inventory, so something as exotic as vanilla from the tropics isn't too unusual. He walks over to the counter._

_“I do have hosta shoots for you, but you'll be wanting them fresh,” she says, smiling as he approaches._

_He is a handsome, tall, kind, brilliant man, and her tea leaves have been telling her she will soon find a great love at a place near to her, but she will need to initiate the relationship. She just knows it_ must _be Dr. Crane. He is the one of the only people in town who doesn't treat her like a pariah. Most of the other townsfolk either ignore or blatantly snub her. That is, unless they need something, usually something to make an unexpected problem go away or address a particularly delicate complaint. But Dr. Crane has always been a friend to her, and she is certain she can guide their friendship into something more._

_“Of course,” he answers, leaning over the box. She pushes it towards him to allow him to better inspect the contents._

_“Please,” she urges._

_“Thank you,” he replies, reaching in and inspecting various specimens. He prods with his long, elegant fingers, picks up and sniffs, holds up to the light, and begins to make a few piles on the countertop._

_While he busies himself, Katrina leans forward slightly, tilting herself just so, hoping her feminine assets will catch his eye. She has worn her most daring dress today, as he always pays a call on Mondays. She also boldly indulges herself, inhaling the clean, masculine scent of his shiny brown hair, which is currently tied back with a black ribbon in an elegant queue._

_Crane is oblivious to her overtures._

_Undeterred, and unsurprised, Katrina waits, biding her time. She suspected she might need to be a bit more overt with her advances since he is often absorbed in his own thoughts._

_“I think that will do nicely,” Crane says, looking down at his sorted piles for a moment before looking up at Katrina. “If you could spare a nice handful of hosta shoots, then, I shall be on my way.”_

_She tilts her head just slightly and says, “Are you certain there isn’t anything,” she pauses and moves her hand to rest atop his on the counter, “_ more _I can offer you?”_

_His eyes widen and he gapes for a second before finding his voice. Gently sliding his hand out from beneath hers, he stammers, “_ _M-Miss Van Tassel… I’m… I’m very flattered, but I’m afraid you mistake my friendship for something more than what it is…”_

_She pauses. “Oh. I see. You are one of those men who… prefers the company of other men,” she states, unable to fathom any other reason for his rejection._

_“N-no, it isn't that. I simply…” he tries to explain, clearly not offended by her conclusion. When she comes around the counter, moving more swiftly than he would have thought possible, he thinks perhaps he should have let her think he_ is _that sort of man, but now it is too late._

_“Don’t you like me, Dr. Crane?” she asks, walking towards him. “Don’t you want me?” She has him trapped against the wall now._

_He takes her shoulders and gently pushes her back, setting her away from him. “You are a fine woman and I consider you a trusted friend. Nothing more. I’m sorry. My research…”_

_“I could assist you with your research. There is much I know about horticulture and… other matters,” she says, her voice turning into a somewhat evasive whisper at the end._

_“Miss Van Tassel, I simply have neither the time nor the desire for such, er, activities. I am very sorry. Excuse me,” he says, then makes a dash for the door._

_“Arrogant ass!” she spits, following him but unable to catch him up on her much shorter legs. “You foul, misleading, pompous… beast!” she spits. “You—”_

_He doesn’t hear the rest of her tirade as he quickly walks down the road, heading straight for home, without his purchases._

_He passes a young woman on the path, and he startles until he realizes that it is a_ different _pretty redhead than the one from whom he has just fled. “M-Miss Caroline,” he shakily greets, awkwardly tipping his hat to the bewildered woman._

_“Dr. Crane,” she answers, then stops. “Are you all right?”_

_“Yes, I’m fine… just… a bit overwhelmed with my… my research at the moment, thank you,” he says._

_She looks around a moment. “You should ask Miss Van Tassel for a nerve tonic,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper. “She has amazing things in her shop.” She pats his arm, then goes along her way._

_Crane nods and continues walking, knowing that Miss Van Tassel will not be following him as Miss Caroline is undoubtedly heading to the shop to see about the monthly herbal tea she takes._ The one she thinks no one knows about but, in fact, everyone does because this village is filled with nothing but gossip-mongerers, _he thinks, growing somewhat bitter._

And now I have no mushrooms for my darkness experiments and no shoots for my luncheon salad.

_He decides to take the long way back to his home, looking for supplies the hard way out of necessity._

 

xXx

 

_A sudden flash of light outside catches Crane's attention. He has just retired to his favorite chair with a book and a glass of brandy for a little reading before bed. The flash is followed by a rumble of thunder, and he sets his book down to go to the window._

I did not think the conditions were right for a storm _, he muses, looking outside. He opens the window just as the lightning flashes again, illuminating a cloaked figure standing in his back garden._

_“What the devil?” he wonders aloud, peering down, trying to see in the dark._

_Another flash, and the person's face is raised this time, looking straight at him._

_It's Katrina._

_“Miss Van Tassel?” he calls, confused. “What are you doing in my garden? You should return home, it is not fit weather to be out.”_

_She derisively laughs. “You show concern for me now, Ichabod Crane? After you cruelly spurn me this morning?”_

_Crane's brow furrows. He did not think he treated her cruelly at all. In fact, he knows he was extremely polite and handled the matter as delicately as one could. “Miss—”_

_Katrina raises her hands in the air and the lighting flashes again, accompanied by a very loud clap of thunder. Things appear to start moving around her in the garden: leaves opening, vines snaking around her feet, flowers bursting open as though it were midsummer instead of early spring. He can just make out the sound of her voice, speaking in a low tone in a strange tongue._

_He watches, eyes wide, suddenly realizing that the gossip about Katrina Van Tassel may well be true._

_She is a witch._

_Her voice rises to a shout, and a gust of wind blows into the house, extinguishing all the lights in the room._

_Another flash of lightning, and Crane collapses._

 

xXx

 

_Crane groans awake, the sunlight hitting him right in the eyes. “Oh…” he moans, rolling onto his back._

Something is wrong. _He opens his eyes, and he immediately knows something has changed. Something within himself. He lifts a hand to rub his eyes and shouts when he sees his hand is covered in brown fur, his fingers tipped with short claws._

_He thrashes about, terrified, as he tries to get to his feet. Cautiously, he looks down at himself. His clothes are in tatters, and his feet look similar to his hands. He reaches up to feel his face, and cries out again._

_He dashes off in a stumbling run to his bedroom, in search of a mirror. As he stares, gaping in disbelief at his reflection, Katrina's voice drifts into his consciousness, almost like a memory. “No one will listen to you, much less look at you. No one will love you, which is only appropriate because you are incapable of giving love.” Her curse._

_Ichabod Crane crumples to the floor, no longer able to look at himself._


	3. In Which a Deal is Struck

“Joe, Jenny hasn't come home yet,” Abbie says, looking worried.

Joe Corbin, who recently inherited the inn from his late father, runs his hand through his hair, growing stressed. “Where did she go again?”

“She said she was going to take a hike in the woods. Maybe catch us something for dinner. That was just after noon,” she answers. “Will you be all right in the kitchen tonight if I go look for her? I know she's much more valuable to you than I am, so—”

“You are just as important, but yes, please go look for her,” Joe cuts her off. “Sophie will be okay without you for a while.” Abbie isn't entirely wrong in her assessment though. Jenny is the best barmaid and waitress in the entire village – possibly the entire kingdom – and The Horseman Inn always turns a lively trade when she is circulating around the tavern, keeping tankards full and ruffians in line. Abbie is the best cook in the village and does most of the cooking, but Sophie Foster, who arrived fairly recently, assists her and has proved a quick study. Abbie can occasionally be convinced to sing a song or two for the patrons, but she generally stays hidden in the kitchen.

“Thanks, Joe,” she says, grabbing an unlit torch and heading for the door. It's not dark yet, but nightfall comes earlier and earlier this time of year. “Be back as soon as I can.”

“Be careful, Abbie,” he calls. “We don't need both Mills sisters disappearing in the woods!”

 

xXx

 

Abbie finds her sister's trail fairly quickly. She knows where Jenny would have started her hike and the morning's fresh snow makes tracking very easy.

She stops, puzzling, when she finds the place on the path where Jenny's footprints seem to abruptly end. Looking around, she notices some branches that appear freshly broken, their interiors still bright. She then notices the footprints in the snow leading off of the path.

 _Why did she go this way?_ Abbie picks her way through. She sees a tuft of fur, and crouches down. _Rabbit, maybe. Did she catch a rabbit in here? Why didn't she come out?_

She stands up again and stretches, thinking, leaning her head back.

Then she sees it. The looming manor house hidden in the deepest part of the woods. She had never seen it before, but now that she has, can't imagine how she could have missed it.

And sure enough, in the fading light she can just make out Jenny's footprints heading towards the house. She follows them to the back garden, and can clearly see signs of an altercation. Jenny's footprints. A set of much larger footprints that appear to somehow be _wrong_ , like the boots the person was wearing did not fit properly. Jenny's stumbling footprints leading backwards to a statue of a woman with its head resting at its feet. And most alarming, a patch of blood in the snow near a fully-blooming rosebush.

 _In November?_ She crouches down beside the blood, but doesn't touch it, not knowing whose blood it is. She reaches a hand towards the rosebush and gently strokes one petal, jerking her hand back in surprise when she discovers it is _warm._

 _Jenny fought with someone – or something – here and hasn't returned home._ Then she sees the tracks leading to the house. Two sets, Jenny's smaller footprints smudgy, as though she was struggling.

Abbie stands looks up at the house. It appears dark within, but that doesn't mean anything. It's a big place, and she's only looking at one side. She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, strides to the front door, and knocks.

No answer.

She knocks again.

Still nothing.

Cursing under her breath, she steps to the nearest window, which is filthy, and leans towards it, cupping her hands around her face to try to see inside.

Someone is moving around in the dim light. She pounds on the window.

“Hello? Please, I need your help! I'm looking for my sister… I think she's hurt. Please!” she yells, pounding on the window again as she peers inside again. She knows Jenny has to be inside, but she can't make blatant accusations if she wants to gain access to the interior.

Whoever was moving around in there is no longer in sight, so she goes back to the door and pounds on it. “I know someone is in there… I saw you moving around! I'm going to keep pounding on this door until you answer!”

Abbie pounds with both fists until her hands grow numb. She nearly falls forward when the door is suddenly flung open.

“What?” a deep voice snaps from the shadows within.

She looks up at the dark shape in the doorway, unable to see anything identifiable. He appears to be wearing a cloak and gloves along with some sort of mask.

But she doesn't gasp or tremble or cower in any way. “Pardon me, sir. I'm very sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for my sister,” she says. “I followed her trail to this house, and…” her voice trails off as she hears noises coming from inside.

When she leans forward, listening, Crane takes a moment to gaze down at her. _She is beautiful. And fearless, like her sister, but with an air of authority the other woman does not have. Yet there is a definite vulnerability about her as well._

“Hello? Help! I'm being held captive!” The voice is faint, but it is definitely Jenny.

Abbie's eyes flash with anger. “You've got my sister,” she says, staring up at him for a second. Then she pushes past him, ducking under his arm. “Jenny!” she calls. Then she wheels on the cloaked man. “What have you done to my sister?” she demands.

Crane remembers himself and haughtily answers, “Your sister was trespassing on my property, broke a very valuable statue, and could have destroyed… something that cannot be replaced,” he growls.

“I don't care if she shot your dog with an arrow and threw a rock through your window. You can't hold her hostage,” Abbie states, drawing herself up to her full, yet meager, height. “Let her out.”

She is glorious in all her diminutive fury, but Crane cannot let himself become distracted by hopeless matters. “She needs to make recompense for what she has done,” he replies.

“We don't… we don't have any money,” Abbie says, deflating a little. “Our parents died years ago, and we can barely live on what we can earn.”

He angles his head, curious, and asks, “What _exactly_ is it you and your sister do to earn money?”

She can't see his face but his voice drips with insinuation, and she bristles at his implication that she and her sister are prostitutes. “Jenny is a barmaid and I am a cook. And I occasionally sing.” Then she rather pointedly adds, “I am also quite good at tracking down lost items. Or people.”

Crane is intrigued. She is smart and beautiful and he finds himself becoming interested in something other than his own misery for the first time in three years.

Jenny continues making a racket in the locked room, snapping Crane out of his distraction.

Abbie hears it, too, and makes a very hasty decision. _Jenny makes more money than I do. She earns more money for Joe than I do. She needs to go back._ “I'll make a deal with you,” she impulsively says. “Let her go, and I'll stay here to work off her debt.”

“Do you plan on singing to me? Or shall I make you a list of items that have gone missing for you to locate for me?” he sarcastically asks.

She puts her hands on her hips. “This place is filthy. I told you I was a cook, and by the looks of you, you haven't had a good meal in years.” She looks him up and down, and though he is completely obscured, she can tell he is quite slender beneath his cloak.

His traitorous stomach rumbles and he remembers the rabbit still hanging in his cold stores. “Very well,” he answers at length. “This way.”

She follows, nearly running on legs much shorter than his. He puts the key in the lock, then hesitates.

“What?” she asks.

“How can I trust you will keep your word?” he asks.

Abbie doesn't even blink. “My word is all I have,” she steadily says, boldly staring up at him, looking him in the eyes. Or at least where she imagines his eyes must be.

Something about her demeanor tells Crane she is telling him the truth. He turns the key.

Jenny comes flying out. “Abbie!” she yells, throwing her arms around her sister. “He's been keeping me here… I had no way to tell you where I was… it was a misunderstanding, I swear… I didn't mean…”

“ _Jenny_ ,” Abbie emphatically says, giving her sister an additional squeeze before releasing her. “I'm sure it was an accident. But you need to go home now.”

“Well, let's go then. He took my bag,” Jenny says. “Where's my bag?” she wheels on Crane. “Hey. Mystery man: My bag.”

“I will return it to you when you leave,” he answers.

“Come on, Abbie,” Jenny says. “We need to get back to the Horseman.”

“Jenny,” Abbie says, following her sister towards the door.

“I hope Joe won't be too mad… though he generally doesn't stay mad at me for long…”

“Jenny,” Abbie repeats. They are just inside the front door.

Crane reaches out and hands Jenny her bag, minus one rabbit.

“Where's my rabbit? That was going to be our dinner. Not that there's time for it now, but…” Jenny says.

“One rabbit is but a pittance compared to the damage you caused,” Crane says.

“Fine,” Jenny huffs. Then she notices her sister's uncomfortable demeanor. “Abbie?”

“Tell Joe I'm sorry and that Sophie is more than capable of covering my duties,” Abbie quietly says.

“Wait, what?” Jenny asks, looking back and forth between her sister and her former captor. “Abbie, what have you done?”

“I made a deal. You are more valuable at the Horseman than here,” Abbie answers. “Go home. I'll be fine.” As she assures her sister, she realizes that she's not just placating her. She somehow knows she will come to no harm from this… whoever he is. She reaches out and hugs her sister.

After what Crane has clearly deemed an acceptable period of time, Abbie feels a pair of strong hands on her shoulders, pulling her away from her sister.

“Hey! You don't get to do that!” Jenny yells. “Don't you dare touch her!”

Without a word, Crane picks Jenny up and deposits her outside. He closes and locks the front door before she can catch up to him, and pounds on the door. A string of obscenities reach their ears through the heavy wood.

Abbie steps up to the door, leaning against it. Crane follows, but when she makes no move to unlock it, he stops, watching. “Jenny,” she calls, and the pounding and yelling both stop. “It'll be okay. I don't know how I know, but… trust me, all right?”

There is silence for a moment. Abbie knows she is the only person Jenny fully trusts. “I don't like it, but I'll trust you.”

Abbie cocks her head slightly. “Whatever you're thinking of doing, Jenny… don't. It's not worth it. I'll be home as soon as I can.”

Jenny's muffled curse makes Abbie smile just a little, and she moves to the window. She wipes a section of the glass with her sleeve and watches as her younger sister walks down the path. She pauses at the end, looking towards the back yard.

“Don't do it, Jenny,” Abbie whispers.

As though she has heard her sister, Jenny continues on the path, heading home.

Abbie turns around and startles slightly. “Oh. I… I kind of forgot you were there,” she admits. _He's very quiet. I'll have to remember that and be on my guard._

“Hmm,” he mutters. “The rabbit of which your sister spoke is in my cold stores. If you would like to use it to prepare dinner, that would be satisfactory.”

“Where do you get your supplies?” she asks, curious.

“I have an arrangement with a man in the village,” he answers. “The kitchen is this way.”

She follows. “Which village?” This house is centrally located between three different villages.

“From which village do you hail?” he asks.

“Sleepy Hollow.”

“My… assistant is in Tarrytown,” he answers, opening the door to the kitchen. “If… if there is anything you require, I will have him procure it for you. You only need let me know.”

“I'd actually like some things from my home, but somehow I think that's not going to happen,” she says, walking in. “Nice.” The kitchen is well-appointed and larger than her entire house.

“The cold stores are through that door,” he points.

“Thank you… what's your name?” she asks.

 _What is my name?_ It's been so long since he's had any real human interaction, he realizes it has been years since the last time he told someone his name. “Crane,” he simply answers.

“You're a bird?” she asks, once again trying to peer under his cloak.

He almost laughs. Another thing that hasn't happened in years. “My name is… Ichabod Crane,” he answers.

“Grace Abigail Mills,” she says, hesitantly extending her hand. “Most people call me Abbie.”

“Miss Mills,” he replies, briefly and carefully grasping her offered hand. It feels incredibly small in his grasp, not much larger than a child's.

She can tell he has a tremendous amount of strength and is taking great care not to crush her hand. The small kindness throws her. “Dinner will be in two hours,” she answers.

“That will be satisfactory,” he replies, then exits.

“I suppose that rabbit still needs to be cleaned, too,” Abbie sighs and turns towards her work.


	4. In Which a Delicate Balance is Formed

Crane walks into the dining room exactly two hours later to find the long wooden table set for two. One place setting is at the head of the table, the other beside it.

It looks cozy. Intimate.

He frowns.

Abbie walks in with a large tureen. “Right on time,” she says.

“What's this?” he asks.

She sets the dish on the table. “Dinner?” she slowly answers, wondering why he is confused.

“I prefer to dine alone,” he replies. In truth, he would love to dine with her. The problem is, eating requires him to remove his mask and he doesn't want her to see his hideous face.

She frowns. “Um, all right… I guess I'll just… eat in the kitchen then…” she trails off, mumbling something additional he doesn't catch as she begins gathering her place setting.

“What was that last part?” he asks.

She turns around. “I said, 'like a servant, because that's obviously what I am,'” she answers.

He wasn't expecting her to actually tell him what she said, and it throws him. “Miss Mills…”

“No,” she stops him. “I get it. I'm here to work off a debt. I was stupid to think that getting to know one another might be a good idea since I have no idea how long I'm going to be here. I'll eat in the kitchen, like the help, and you can dine in here, _alone_ , like the Lord of the Manor you clearly are.”

“Stop,” he says, louder than he intends, but it does the trick. She stops but does not turn. “I said I _preferred_ to dine alone,” he replies, slightly exasperated. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, fingers twitching in a nervous habit he's had as long as he can remember. It hasn't exhibited itself since he became a hermit. A beast. He heaves a sigh and she turns around. “Set your place at the other end.” He points to the opposite end of the long table. There is a centerpiece and several candelabra in between them that should effectively prevent her from being able to see him. _I will simply remove the mask but retain the cloak._

She looks at him for a moment, seems to decide against speaking whatever it is she is thinking, and brings her dishes back to the table, setting them at the appointed place. “Look, Mr. Crane—”

“Doctor,” he corrects, the title jumping out automatically.

“Doctor?” she asks, looking up. “You're a physician?”

He sits. “No. I am not that sort of doctor,” he explains. “I am a research scientist.”

She walks towards him, cursing her distractedness for not being bright enough to fill her bowl with stew before initially moving it. “What do you research?” she asks, wondering if he hides his appearance because he had some sort of horrible laboratory accident.

“My area of expertise is horticulture,” he answers.

Abbie spoons some stew into his bowl first, then hers, thinking of the strange rosebush in the back garden and wondering how he got it to bloom all the time. _Can't ask that right away though._ “Really? Is there a lot of research you can do on plants?” she asks instead. She fills her goblet, takes a piece of cornbread, and walks back to her seat.

He leans down and smells the rabbit stew as he reaches for some bread. It smells heavenly, and the cornbread is still warm. “This stew smells—”

“Satisfactory?” Abbie interjects, a wry smile curving the corner of her mouth.

Crane chuckles once. It is the most laughing he has done in years. “I was going to say it smells delicious,” he answers. He looks down the length of the table and sees only candles and the large vase in the middle. He carefully removes the cowl obscuring his face and begins to eat.

It's the best rabbit stew he's ever had. An unconscious groan escapes.

“I hope that was a good sound.” Her voice floats across the stillness.

“Yes,” he confirms.

“Good,” she answers.

They eat in silence for a short time. The cornbread is heavenly, moist and slightly sweet. He could eat an entire pan of it and still want more.

“So who's blood was that in the snow outside?” Abbie suddenly asks.

“Mine,” he answers. “It seems your sister has an unexpected talent for pugilism.”

“She punched you in the nose, hey?” she answers, laughing. “You're lucky she didn't kick you in the… um…”

“Quite,” he tightly agrees.

She pauses a moment. “Is your nose all right?”

“It was bloodied, but I do not believe it has been broken,” he answers.

“I can take a loo—”

“No.”

He hears her very deliberately set a utensil on the table. “I don't care what you look like, all right? You don't need to cover yourself just because you think I'll faint at the sight of you, because I promise you I won't, no matter what it is you've got going on under that cloak.”

He downs his wine and sets the goblet on the table with a bit more force than necessary. “You have no idea about which you speak,” he sharply replies.

“Look. I—”

“This topic is not up for discussion.” His normally warm voice is like ice.

“Fine,” she snaps, suddenly standing and heading to the kitchen.

Crane gapes, not knowing what to do. He didn't wish to be short with her, but he knows there is just no way he can let her see him. He hates that he started to lose his temper, hates that he made her leave, and hates that he let his guard down as much as he has done with her. But he feels undeniably drawn to this beautiful young woman, and his attraction combined with the obvious hopelessness of the situation has addled his wits and soured his mood. _She is a ray of sunshine and I must stand in the shadows._

When Abbie returns a moment later, he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Cover up, because I've brought dessert,” she barks, clearly still annoyed.

He quickly pulls the hood of his cloak down and huddles deeper into it.

“I found some dried fruit in your pantry and made tarts,” she says, her demeanor still cool as she drops a small pie in front of him.

Then she leaves again, clearly going to eat her dessert in the kitchen.

Crane stares at the remains of the delicious stew in his bowl and finishes it, determined not to waste it despite the fact that he no longer has much of an appetite.

Bowl empty, he pulls the tart towards him and takes a bite.

It is divine.

 

xXx

 

Crane finds Abbie in the kitchen a short time later. He has brought all the dishes from dinner.

A small peace offering.

“The entire meal was the best I have ever eaten,” he simply says.

“I doubt that's true, but thank you,” she quietly answers. She notices his mask is back on, but says nothing.

“I would assist you in cleaning the dishes, but unfortunately, my…” he lifts his gloved hands, not exactly sure what to say.

“Hands too, huh?” she asks. She looks at him for a beat longer, but says nothing, obviously once again deciding against commenting further.

“I shall be in the parlor. I will show you to your rooms when you are finished.”

Abbie merely nods, already tending to the dinner dishes.

She hears the door close and only then do his words sink in. _Rooms? Plural?_

Dishes do not take long, and she has put the remainder of the stew back in the cold stores, thinking she might make a rabbit pie from the leftovers. _It's always easier to stretch food further this time of year, what with the easy access to cold._

She ticks off a mental list of things she needs as she walks to the parlor, remembering what he said earlier that night and hoping she didn't anger him so much that the offer is no longer on the table. Her time alone in the kitchen gave her some space to think, and she realized she had been making assumptions before she learned all the facts. _Mama would not be pleased with me._

He hears her footsteps and is just setting his book down when she comes into the room.

“This way,” he says, standing. He passes her with scarcely a glance, and she follows.

“I'm sorry,” she softly apologizes as they walk. They reach a staircase and he begins ascending. Abbie is surprised; she assumed she would be shut into the room where Jenny had been held.

“For?” he asks.

“For pushing you about your… appearance. I'm sure you've got a good reason for hiding from the world, and I should respect that. My mama taught Jenny and me that we shouldn't make assumptions, and that's exactly what I did,” she says. “It was insensitive of me.”

His steps slow for a second, and he turns. “Thank you,” he answers. “Believe me when I say it is for the best.”

She doesn't believe him, but the sadness in his voice is so heartbreaking that she nods anyway. He pauses at a door, almost as though he is having second thoughts about opening it, but then he does.

“This is bigger than my entire house,” Abbie blurts, immediately regretting it. It is a two room suite, with a small parlor just inside the door and a larger sleeping chamber just beyond.

“These were my mother's rooms,” Crane quietly says. “Many of her things are still here. They are at your disposal.”

“Oh,” she replies, blinking. She wonders how long his mother has been gone and if her things are in any state to be used. _I guess I'll find out._ She slowly walks through the room, and it dawns on her that it is spotlessly clean. No dust. No smell of decay or mildew. _He keeps this space clean._ She can't decide if that is sweet or sad. “Thank you,” she simply says.

“Do you know your letters?” he asks.

“Yes,” she answers, not offended at the question. Only about half of the people in her village can read and write, and most of them are men.

“Make a list of anything you require. My man will do the best he can to meet your needs,” he says, gesturing to a desk in the corner. “He will be here the day after tomorrow.”

She nods.

“You… you are free to go anywhere in this house… apart from my rooms,” he says, moving towards the door.

She angles her head at him. “Where are your rooms?” she asks. “So I know not to go there.”

He sighs and only answers because he is rather certain that she will find out on her own if he doesn't. “The far end of this corridor, on the opposite side. There is a library directly beneath your rooms if you care for some entertainment.”

“Thank you,” she repeats.

He nods, and as he turns towards the door, something occurs to her. “The statue Jenny broke… that was your mother's likeness, wasn't it?”

He pauses, but does not turn. “Yes,” he answers, then disappears.

 

xXx

 

Abbie gives Crane her list in time for him to pass it along to his agent, which is something that has piqued her curiosity. Her host is a recluse, but it seems he has one acquaintance who is willing to assist him with his needs. On the appointed day, she hovers near the front door, waiting for him to appear.

As the grandfather clock in the parlor strikes ten, Crane appears, striding quickly and purposefully through the house to the door. She had purposely saved the front windows for this day.

“Miss Mills, please move away from the window,” Crane says, his voice soft, but it is most definitely an order.

Abbie scowls but obeys, moving to another wall.

Then there is a tap on the door.

He opens it a crack, peering out.

She stops working, intent on listening, but can only catch bits and pieces.

“…know there is more than usual…”

“…do not pay you to ask questions…”

“…of course not…”

“…won't find anyone else willing…” This is the other man's voice, and Abbie's eyebrows lift a bit.

“…Van Brunt… very well. Now go.”

Then there is the unmistakable metallic clink of coins. Crane closes the door and Abbie quickly returns to her task.

“He is a philanderer with few scruples,” Crane comments, almost offhandedly, as he walks back through the parlor. “It is for your own protection that he not see you, as he has very little self-control once he sets his sights on a beautiful woman.”

He disappears into his laboratory, leaving Abbie standing there gaping. She is wearing a skirt that is too long (Crane's mother was apparently a tall woman), a smudged apron, and the tight spirals of her hair are currently being held away from her face with a kerchief. A rag dangles from her hand and she is certain her face is dirty.

Yet he called her “beautiful” with a casualness that suggested he felt it an obvious observation.

Apart from that event, the next few days pass innocuously enough. Crane keeps to himself, disappearing for hours at a time into his laboratory in the back of the house, asking only that she knock on the door and wait for him to bid her enter should she need him for any reason.

Abbie busies herself cleaning and cooking, and in a short time the filthy windows are clean and the entire house is brighter. She notes that while her rooms – the late Mistress Crane's private quarters – are clean and well-tended, the rest of the house has fallen into a state of neglect. She wonders about the state of his rooms, but knows better than to investigate.

At least not now.

 

xXx

 

On the fourth day, Abbie chooses to knock on the laboratory door.

“Give me a few moments, please.” Crane's voice is distant but clear.

“All right,” she answers, waiting. She slowly, carefully tries the handle and finds it locked.

A minute later, she hears the bolt slide and the door opens, revealing her cloaked host.

“What was the purpose in explicitly telling me to knock and wait if you have the door locked anyway?” she asks.

“I did not know if I could trust you or not,” he admits.

She looks up at him. “Fair enough,” she decides. “I probably would have done the same.”

“With what do I owe the pleasure of your company this afternoon, Miss Mills?” he mildly asks, walking back to a bench covered with small pots of dirt.

“Do you have a preference for dinner? I can roast us a chicken or there's still more of that pork shoulder…”

“Why have you _really_ come to my laboratory?” he asks.

Abbie isn't sure, but she thinks she can hear a slight smile in his voice. She's not really surprised he saw through her ruse. “Curiosity, mainly,” she answers. “What are you doing?”

“Attempting to create a new hybrid,” he explains.

“Of?” she asks, coming closer.

“Beans,” he answers. Surprised, she laughs, and he finds it as musical as when she sings. She often sings or hums when she works, and he's never heard a voice more beautiful.

“I was expecting something… grander. Like, I don't know, roses,” she carefully ventures.

“Why roses?” All of the good humor and warm feelings have drained from him at her words.

“Well, you've got that one in the yard,” she says, walking towards the windows (which are clean, she notes, likely due to the need for sunlight in here). “The one that is still blooming into late November, so naturally I assumed it was a creation of yours.”

He is silent for a long, uncomfortable minute, and she hopes she hasn't overstepped her bounds.

“It is not a creation of mine,” he says in a tone that suggests it is another of his Items Not Up For Discussion.

Abbie simply nods, noticing there appear to be two fallen blossoms beside the bush. She decides not to comment on it, moving away from the window to walk around a little. Deciding to change the subject, she asks, “What's in here?” She taps a wooden crate.

“Mushrooms,” Crane answers. “They grow in the dark.”

“Yes, I know,” she replies, moving to what appears to be a wall of herbs. “This is clever. The vertical arrangement saves space,” she observes. “Lavender. Rosemary. Sage.” She names herbs as she sees them, stopping to smell a few. “What is this? It smells delicious.”

He turns. “ _Ocimum basilicum._ Basil. That one is from Italy. The one beside it is from the Far East.”

She rubs a leaf on one, then the other. “I can smell the difference.”

“Impressive,” he notes.

“You should keep bees,” she notes, moving to a large cabinet filled with small drawers. They are all labeled with neat handwriting and she opens a few, peering inside. One is filled with packets of tiny black seeds. “Poppies, Dr. Crane?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“They have medicinal uses as well as recreational, as I am certain you well know,” he answers. “And I have considered keeping bees; they are wonderfully helpful. But I'm afraid it isn't possible.”

 _Because of whatever he has hidden under that cloak._ His unspoken words are clear in her mind. She nods. “I'll leave you to your work,” she declares, heading towards the door. “ _Do_ you have a preference for dinner?”

“Chicken,” he answers, not moving to follow her.

“Not going to lock the door after me?” she asks, fingers on the handle.

“I am choosing to trust you,” he answers. “Do not make me regret that choice.”

She gives him a final nod, and disappears. Outside the laboratory, she waits a moment, listening for the sound of a bolt sliding into place. There is nothing.

 

xXx

 

After dinner, Crane hovers in the doorway of the kitchen. He heard Abbie singing while washing the dishes, and found his steps slowing, then stopping in the corridor. He knows the song; it's an old lullaby about a bird.

She turns and startles. “Oh! I keep forgetting how silent you are,” she says, self-consciously tucking her hair into her scarf. _I look a mess._

“You have a beautiful singing voice,” he simply says. “My mother used to sing that to me when I was a boy.” He instantly regrets letting that detail slip, and steels himself for more questions.

“So did mine,” she answers, surprising him by asking no questions. “She's dead, too.”

“I am sorry,” he quietly says.

“Thank you. I, um… noticed there is a tub in… in my room,” she hesitantly starts, feeling strange calling it _her_ room.

“There are kettles under the worktable,” he says. “I'm surprised you haven't already found them, due to your proximity to the floor.”

“Dr. Crane, was that… a joke?” she asks. “A joke about my _very respectable_ height?”

“I admit nothing,” he answers. “Please let me know if you need assistance carrying water. I am much stronger than I appear.”

Abbie already knows this, but answers, “Thank you.”

He walks away, once again heartsore, his confusion over her presence only growing the longer she stays here. Yet he can't bring himself to set her free, because as painful as being in her presence is, it will pale in comparison to being bereft of it.

After he helps her haul the kettles of water up to his mother's beautiful copper bathtub, he finds himself once again hovering outside a door, this time a closed one. _Guiltily lurking like a… common_ pervert _, listening to her bathe._ He squeezes his eyes shut and stalks to his room. It takes everything in him to _not_ slam the door.

The fact that a third blossom has fallen from the rosebush does not help his mood at all.


	5. In Which Truths are Unmasked

Ichabod Crane is cranky.

Crankier than usual.

Abbie Mills has been a sort-of guest in his home for just over two weeks. His house is now returned to its former glory, spotlessly clean. He hasn't eaten this well in years, probably not since his mother died. And Miss Mills herself is a large ray of sunshine in a tiny package, bringing light into his dark existence.

They've settled into a tentative sort of friendship that admittedly consists of her tiptoeing around his peculiarities, but she doesn't seem to mind. In fact, it seems she has made a point to learn about said peculiarities so as to become a better guest.

Put simply, Crane likes her. But he knows there is no chance that she would ever look upon him in the way in which he would desire.

Because who would love a beast?

And to compound things, _five_ roses have fallen from the bush.

“You're quiet,” Abbie remarks, her voice floating across the stillness while they eat their lunch. She truly doesn't mind the quiet. In fact, they have spent several nights in the library, sharing companionable silence while they read. But there's something different about this silence. It is heavy, almost uncomfortable. Tense.

“Is there a law?” he tersely answers.

There is a beat of quiet and she replies, “No… I'm simply making a comment based on my observation of a change in your normal lunchtime behavior. Surely, as a scientist, you can appreciate that.”

 _Damn her, her clever brain, and her sharp tongue!_ He slams his fork down on the table. “Oh, so you are a psychologist now? Studying my behavior? Please _do_ alert me when your fascinating case study is published in a reputable journal.” His voice drips with sarcasm and he clenches his fists, angry, but not with her. He knows he is behaving like the beast he appears to be, and his hatred for himself nearly consumes him.

He hears the scrape of her chair as she pushes away from the table. “I think I've done enough work to pay off whatever damage my sister has done,” she says, her voice like ice. He's never heard her use that tone before, and the realization that he's gone to far washes over him like a cold wave.

“Miss Mills—”

She is already gone. Stunned, he sits in his chair, staring at the door. He pushes his plate aside and leans his head on his hands, pressing his palms into his eyes until he sees stars. “Idiot,” he hisses, chiding himself aloud. “ _Fool_. Do not take your anger with yourself out on others. Especially not her.” He hears a door slam, but thinks little of it. “You know better and she does not deser—”

He jolts out of his chair, suddenly realizing the sound of the slamming door did not come from overhead. _That sounded like the front door._ He runs, forgetting his mask, heading up to her room.

She's not there.

She's not in the kitchen.

Crane rushes to the front door, opens it, and is immediately hit in the face with blowing snow. Her tracks have already been erased.

He curses, then sets out into the snowstorm. He curses again, knowing he will have to call on some of the baser, animal instincts he possesses in this form.

He listens with keen ears. He heaves a deep sigh and sniffs the air. The wind is blowing too hard for him to catch her scent. Then he remembers: Sleepy Hollow. He starts in that direction.

Counting on the fact that his legs are nearly twice as long as hers, he hopes to quickly catch her up. For the first time he finds himself being grateful for his curse, because the cold does not bother him much at all.

He hears a few twigs snap. Then a sound he had really hoped not to hear: a low growl. “No,” he gasps, breaking into a run.

He catches up just in time to see the coyote leap.

Abbie shouts in surprise and half jumps, half falls, painfully twisting her ankle as she tries to avoid the coyote.

The animal never makes contact. A larger form leaps from nowhere, intercepting it in mid-air. She stumbles back, her injured ankle painfully catching in the mass of tangled branches underfoot, and she falls again, this time hitting her head. The last thing she sees before blacking out is the coyote pinned beneath another, larger animal.

Moments later, Crane staggers to his feet, gazing down with horror at the still form of the coyote. _I have never killed another creature in my life. I killed this animal like the beast that I am._ He stares down at the dark blood and bits of flesh and fur under his claws, and feels slightly sick.

He looks over at Abbie's prone form in the snow. _No._ _I killed this animal to save_ her _life._ He hurries over to her, gathering his cloak about himself once more. He bends down beside her, scrubbing his hands in the snow in an attempt to clean them.

“Miss Mills,” he urges, afraid to touch her. “Abbie,” he tries, her given name sounding foreign yet welcome in his mouth. She is unconscious, and the snow has begun to fall harder. He needs to get her inside.

He bends down and scoops her into his arms, making sure his cloak is covering her, praying she won't wake up before he can mask his appearance again. Her slight weight is no burden at all, and he has her inside and into her bed in a very short time.

 

xXx

 

Abbie slowly wakes. Her head is throbbing and it feels like she has a knife made of ice stabbing her in the ankle. She pries her eyes open and sees she is back in her room. _No. Not my room. Mistress Crane's room._

It's dark now as well, and she wonders how long she's been out. She does not wonder how she wound up back here.

 _Thirsty._ She begins to sit up, winces, and sinks back down.

“You hit your head quite hard,” a familiar voice rumbles in the darkness. She squints into the dim light, straining to see him. There are a few candles lit, but he is deliberately staying in the shadows. “And your ankle is swollen, but not broken,” he continues. He reaches for the ice pack on her ankle and she sees his hand without its glove. It has claws, leathery palms, and is covered in dark hair. She quickly looks away, swallowing her gasp, reminding herself to be careful of her reactions. Her eyes travel up his arm and see a bandage wrapped around his forearm.

“What happened?” Abbie asks. “You're hurt.”

Crane quickly withdraws his hand. “A starving coyote is not to be trifled with,” he simply replies. _What else did she see?_ “But his pelt will fetch a fair price at the market.”

She gasps. “You killed it?” She can make out his silhouette nodding.

“If I hadn't, it likely would have killed you,” he quietly explains.

“Oh,” she dumbly answers.

“Please forgive me, Miss Mills,” he says after a moment.

“For saving my life?” she asks, genuinely confused. Her anger with his boorish behavior dissipated as soon as she realized what he had done for her.

“No. For my behavior at lunch. I was…” He stops and sighs. “My behavior towards you was unwarranted. Yes, I was – and still am – angry; I always am. But my anger should not have been directed at you, as you are not the cause of my ire. It was unfair and ungentlemanly, and I beg your forgiveness,” he gently pleads.

“Thank you for apologizing, but I know you weren’t mad at me,” she answers.

“You do?” he asks.

She narrows her eyes, trying to see in the dark. “Let me see you,” she says, instead of answering his question. “Please.”

He draws in a breath. “I do not think that would be wise.”

Her ice pack slips and he reaches out to secure it once more. She takes the opportunity to grab his other hand, clasping it between hers before he realizes what she’s done. His hand is large, muscular and rough, but the hair (fur?) covering it is surprisingly soft. “I am not afraid of you,” she says.

Skeptical, he hesitates. “That is because you haven't seen me.”

She snorts. “I've already seen your ugly side,” she responds. “Try me.”

He doesn't reply, but after a moment, pulls his hand away to reach for a taper. He lights it from one of the other candles, then sets it to the candles on the nightstand. Abbie sits up slightly, grimacing, to get a better look as he lowers his hood.

She doesn’t scream, doesn’t gasp, doesn’t even shrink away or avert her gaze. Her wide brown eyes simply study him, as if she is memorizing the details of his horrible face.

Yet she doesn’t seem too horrified by it.

As she looks at him, she finds she is not actually surprised to see that he appears to be some sort of half-human, half-beast. It makes perfect sense, and all the strange puzzle pieces suddenly click together into a clear image of the very sad man seated at her bedside.

His appearance is vaguely wolflike, but without the long canid snout. He instead has a rather feline triangular nose and pointed ears tufted with wisps of fur at their tips. His teeth look sharp and his canines are slightly elongated, but not enough to affect his speech. The hair on his head falls in a disarray of chestnut waves, the same color as the fur covering the rest of him, but slightly longer. His long, clawed fingers twitch uncomfortably atop his thighs while he tries not to squirm under her scrutiny.

She carefully leans over and peers down at his feet. They are large and clawed, just like his hands, and she cannot help thinking, _No wonder he never looks comfortable in his boots_.

She slowly reaches up with one hand and unclasps the cloak still resting on his shoulders. It falls away, revealing his very slender frame. Abbie can just make out the definition of long, toned muscles beneath his fur. The only things completely human about his appearance are his eyes, which shine like sapphires in the sea of brown fur. With extreme care and slowness, giving him the opportunity to stop her, she moves her hand to his cheek. His eyes close when her small hand makes contact, simply touching him, her fingertips lightly burrowing in to what might be a beard were he a man.

“Who did this to you?” she simply asks, her voice a whisper that is tender and sympathetic.

He inhales, keeping his eyes closed a moment more. Her tone was one of genuine concern, and was completely, thankfully, devoid of pity. That is perhaps what he feared most: that she would pity him. Somehow, pity would be worse than disgust or fear. His hand comes up as if to rest over hers, but he drops it. He opens his eyes, and she lets her hand fall away, slightly embarrassed.

The fact that she immediately concluded he did not bring this plight upon himself is not lost on him, and he can't help asking, “What makes you think someone did this to me? Why do you not think I did something to deserve such a punishment?”

She cocks her head, angling it just so. “Oh, I don't know that you haven't,” she admits. “But it stands to reason, based on the fact that I've been here for two weeks and you haven't done anything worse than yell at me. And you always apologized for it. You are a gentleman, and I believe that you have always been one.”

He blinks, mulling over her words. “It was a witch,” he answers.

“Tell me,” she says.

 

xXx

 

“Where is she now?” Abbie asks, once he finishes his tale. She is angry for him, angry at this witch and her ridiculous pettiness.

Crane is standing at the window, staring down at the rosebush in his garden. The snow stopped an hour ago, and a full moon is shining brightly enough for him to see another fallen bloom sitting atop the fresh blanket of snow. He turns to face her, his expression grim. “She's dead.”

 

xXx

 

_Crane travels by night, cloaked, as he makes his way to Pocantico Hills, to a camp nestled there. Van Brunt told him his grandmother used to tell him tales of “The Four Who Speak as One”, powerful witches who dwelt in the hills. She told him that they lured errant children into their lair, where they would cook them alive and eat them piece by piece._

_It turned out they do exist, but their true diet remains a mystery._

_“They may have some answers for you and… whatever your particular problem is,” Van Brunt had suggested._

_So Crane set out in search of some witches to see if they will be willing to help him break the unjust curse set upon him by_ another _witch._

_He finds them after two days, in a cottage deep in the hills._

_“Ichabod Crane.” Four unison voices greet him. His fist was raised, suspended in the air as he was about to knock. The door swung open before his knuckles made contact._

_“Yes,” he replies, willing his voice to be steady._

_“We have Seen your journey. We Know you seek our counsel. Enter.”_

_“Thank you, kind ladies,” he replies, stepping inside._

_A chorus of cackles accompany his steps. “Kind? We have been called many things, but 'kind' has not been among them,” they say._

_Crane does not know how to respond to this, so he chooses to say nothing as he stands before them._

_The four women are clad all in black, looking very much like the witches they purport to be. When they speak, he can see they have filed their teeth into points, giving them a rather unsettling appearance. Their hair is long and black, and their eyes pale blue, like ice._

_“We know what you would ask.”_

_“Can you –_ will _you help me?” he asks. “Katrina Van—”_

_“Do not speak her name in our presence,” they hiss, surprising Crane with their rancor. “Her name is poison.”_

_“Forgive me,” he quietly says. “I am a learned man, but there is much about which I am ignorant.”_

_“Only she can lift your curse,” the four say._

_“Where is she?” he asks._

_“The arrogant bitch is dead,” they jubilantly chorus. “Struck down by her own hubris, she met her end at her own hand.”_

_“She… killed herself?” Crane is shocked._

_All four slightly angle their heads in unison. “It was not her intention,” they say, their voices sickeningly sweet. “She believed herself invincible, but some elements cannot be bent to the will of any man or woman.”_

_His heart sinks. Not with grief for Katrina, but with grief for himself because now it seems his plight is hopeless. “I'm to be trapped in this form forever then…”_

_“Ichabod Crane,” the witches speak his name again, and his attention snaps back to them. “You were unjustly punished by a fool of a witch who believed herself more powerful than Nature Herself. We can See that you are a good man. You… are a man of science and reason. You respect nature and, in turn, it respects you.”_

_“Thank you.”_

_“There is another way,” they declare._

_“Will you tell it to me?” he asks._

_“Yes.”_

_“What is the price?” He has heard witches generally do not share things without compensation, and has come prepared with a satchel full of possibilities._

_“We require no trinkets from you,” they answer._

_“Oh,” he softly exclaims, surprised._

_They close their eyes for a moment, then speak. “You must give freely of yourself. Put the needs of another before your own. Offer your heart without reservation, and if it is received and returned, your curse will be lifted.”_

_His heart sinks at their words, knowing such a feat is nigh impossible. His shoulder slump in disappointment._

_“It is not impossible, if the right person can be found,” they say._

_“But…” he starts and stops, knowing they are probably aware he remains in hiding. These four witches are the first people he's seen apart from Van Brunt in over a year. “Thank you,” he says instead._

_“Mind the rosebush in your garden,” they advise._

_“It is always in flower,” he comments._

_“It is the Timekeeper. When the last bloom dies, the curse can no longer be broken.”_

_“How much time is that?” he asks, grateful to at least have confirmation that the rosebush is tied to all this. He also knows that none have yet died, so that gives him a sliver of hope._

_“Nightfall is not far,” they reply, not answering. “Your journey home will be uneventful.”_

_“Thank you again,” he replies, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice. He reaches into his bag for a few coins._

_“No payment is needed,” they insist. “But you must promise that, should you break this curse, you will honor she who breaks it all the days of your life.”_

_He bites back the question threatening to leap from his mouth, the question asking if they can See whether or not he breaks it, asking if they can See the woman, if they can give him even one detail about her. Or even if such a woman exists. He straightens his back, bows deeply, and answers, “You have my most solemn vow.”_


	6. In Which Something May Be There

Crane quietly knocks on Abbie's door. He brought her a tray with some breakfast a little while ago, and figures she has had enough time to eat. “Miss Mills?” he calls.

He faintly hears her muffled voice and enters to see a small, trembling shape huddled in the middle of the bed.

“Miss Mills, are you all right?” he asks, rushing over.

“So cold,” she answers, her voice muffled by the blankets.

“Oh dear,” he says, carefully leaning over. He's still not accustomed to letting her see him uncloaked, and keeps his movements slow and careful for fear of startling her. He reaches down, his hand hovering near her head where he hesitates a moment before laying his hand on her forehead. “Good heavens, you have a fever.”

She makes a halfhearted grab for his hand, chasing his warmth. He indulges her whim a moment, allowing her to press her cheek against his palm partly because it allows him to feel the softness of her skin for just a little longer.

He stares down at her, worried. He can go get more blankets… stoke up a fire in the fireplace… bring her some tea… _Those all take time, and she is shivering so hard I can hear her teeth chattering._

He gently slides his hand away, and she whimpers. Then he takes a deep breath, steels himself, quickly flips the covers back, and slides into the bed beside her.

She immediately scoots over, snuggling against his side. “Oh,” she exhales. “Warm. You're so warm.”

Crane's posture is stiff beside her, half sitting, half lying with his arm gingerly around her shoulders. His eyes are closed as he tries to think of something to distract him from the beautiful woman clinging to him like a vine. _Vines. Yes._ He begins naming types of vines in his head as a diversion. _Actinidia polygama. Hedera helix. Lathyrus odoratus. Parthenocissus tricuspidata. Pueraria montana. Thunbergia grandiflora. Wisteria._

Abbie's trembling gradually ceases, but she doesn't move away or loosen her grasp on him. “Thank you,” she whispers. She sighs a moment later, growing heavy and still against his side.

 _She's asleep._ He exhales slowly, unsure about what to do. He doesn't want to leave her for fear of her getting cold again, but he doesn't exactly feel comfortable – proper – staying. They are sharing a bed, and while it is completely innocent and done out of necessity, he hasn't been in close proximity to _anyone_ , much less a very attractive woman who does not seem to be put off at all by his monstrous appearance.

He gazes down at her, her hair pulled back in a braid that is beginning to come undone, her entrancing eyes closed, slightly oversized nightdress rumpled.

She looks beautiful.

_And you cannot have her._

He closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the headboard. As he drifts off to sleep, the voices of the Four Who Speak As One float into his memory.

_Offer your heart without reservation, and if it is received and returned, your curse will be lifted._

 

xXx

 

_“Abbie, my sweet.” I lift her hand to my lips, delicate, but strong. Her flawless brown skin is soft and fragrant, and I linger, indulging myself an additional few seconds to inhale the sweetness of her._

_“Ichabod.” My name on her lips is more sonorous than any music; the smile she bestows on me more beautiful than any sunrise. I turn her hand, clasping it in mine, reveling in the smallness of her hand in mine, the feel of her skin against mine._

_“I do not wish to appear forward, but… may I kiss you?” I ask, gently pulling her towards me._

_She is richly dressed in a fine gown, and her skirts envelop my legs as she moves closer, wordlessly giving me my answer. Her hands slide up my chest to my shoulders as my hands slide around her waist._

_I dip my head and she lifts up on tiptoe to meet me._

_I try to be a gentleman; I try to keep the kiss chaste and sweet, but I find I simply cannot rein in the desire I have for the petite beauty in my arms._

_Luckily, she seems just as eager as I, and the fingers of her one hand dance over the skin of my neck as they make their way into my hair. Her small feet move to stand atop mine, pressing herself closer still, and I feel a groan rumble in my throat._

_I tighten my arms around her, hauling her small body scandalously close, and I cannot help but allow my tongue to slip forward, teasing the seam of her lips._

_She makes a wonderful, small sound and willingly parts her lips, welcoming my tongue with her own._

_She must be made of pure honey, for she is the sweetest delicacy I have had the pleasure of tasting…_

Crane jolts awake, breathing heavily and confused, having no idea of the time or how long he's been asleep. He looks down and sighs in relief when he sees Miss Mills is still asleep. Especially because he _also_ sees – and feels – the unmistakable tenting of his trousers.

It's the first _real_ arousal he's felt in three years, and he feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment over his predicament, even though she is still sleeping.

He also feels profound frustration. _I was human again. She loved me and I was human._

He squirms a bit, uncomfortably aroused, as he slips out of her bed. She's kicked the covers half off, so he reasons she has recovered from her bout of chills.

He gives her one last glance, then flees to his bedroom to attempt to collect his thoughts. To mull over the obvious significance of the dream.

Though he wonders if he would be wiser to go outside and lie face-down in the snow for a while.

 

xXx

 

Abbie wakes a short time later, and is somewhat dismayed to discover that Crane is no longer beside her. She feels a great deal better, and knows that he was likely rather uncomfortable being in bed with her, even given the circumstances. She hopes she didn't take him away from his work too much, and makes a mental note to thank him.

She also makes a mental to _not_ tell him that his warm, fuzzy presence in her bed put her in mind of a dog she and Jenny had when they were girls. He would sleep between them in their bed, keeping them warm during the cold winters.

She sits up and brushes a stray lock of hair out of her face, catching a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror across from the bed. “Oh, dear,” she says, seeing what a mess she looks. She flexes her foot and finds her ankle is sore, but sound enough. She needs to tidy herself up, and her bladder is crying for relief.

Using the chamber pot is awkward, but easier than the last time (and there is no way in heaven or earth she is going to ask _him_ for help). She sits at the vanity and splashes some cool water on her face from the bowl there, then sees about her hair.

As she untwists her braid and begins combing through her unruly curls, she realizes there is not really any reason to make herself look presentable. She's injured, has a bump on her head (something of which she is painfully reminded as she deals with her hair), and a slight fever.

Still, she fixes her hair, securing it with a silk scarf instead of a braid. Then she changes into a clean nightdress.

Because there _is_ one reason she wishes to look presentable, if not nice, but it's a reason she's not quite ready to acknowledge.

By the time she gets back to bed, she is feeling slightly dizzy, but also slightly better. She picks up the book on her nightstand, deciding to read a bit.

She finds her head hurts too much to read, and sets it aside, closing her eyes.

A few seconds later, she hears a soft knock on her door.

“Come in,” she calls.

Crane walks in with another tray. “Ah, you are awake. Are you hungry?” he asks.

“A bit,” she answers. “Sleeping the morning away is hard work, you know.”

“Indeed,” he agrees, setting the tray down. “Would you like me to open the curtains? The sun is out.”

She can tell by how he is regarding her that he noticed she has freshened up, but neither of them comment on it. “Please,” she answers, eyeing the tray. “You made soup?”

“I am not as adept in the kitchen as you, Miss Mills, but I can manage soup,” he replies, smiling slightly. He opens the drapes and bright sunlight floods into the room.

“Oh, that's nice,” Abbie says, closing her eyes and turning her face towards the light.

“Yes,” Crane agrees, looking at her lovely face awash in the bright winter sunlight. “It is.”

She opens her eyes and meets his gaze for a second before he averts his eyes and sets about getting her lunch.

“This smells good,” she comments, leaning forward over her bowl. “Wait. This isn't coyote soup, is it?” she asks, an impish smile curving her lips.

“Well, if it smells good, then it is most assuredly _not_ coyote soup,” he says, picking up his bowl.

She stares at him for a moment. “All right, I do not even want to know how you know that.”

The area over his left eye twitches upward, as though he is raising an eyebrow at her.

She smiles. “I like being able to see your face.”

He freezes, spoon in mid-air, mouth open. “Y-you do?” he asks.

“It's very expressive,” she explains. “You don't know how difficult it was to talk to you without any visual facial clues.”

“I suppose that could be challenging,” he allows, knowing how he would feel being robbed of seeing her lovely countenance. _Of course I know what I would be missing. She didn't know what I looked like beneath my mask._

“I also couldn't help noticing the mask isn't the only thing you aren't wearing anymore,” she says, glancing up at him between bites. He is clad only in a pair of trousers.

“Oh… I do beg your pardon,” he stammers, setting his bowl down. He begins to stand, likely to go retrieve a shirt, but she stops him.

“It's all right,” she says. “Honest. I… I think I understand why.”

“Do you?”

“Well, you're _really_ warm, I know that much,” she says, keeping her eyes trained on her bowl. “You're probably more comfortable this way.”

“Yes,” he replies.

“You must have been roasting under that cloak.”

“Yes, but the boots were truly the most uncomfortable part,” he explains.

“You need boots made for the way your feet are shaped,” she observes.

“Yes, well, that won't be happening,” he says, frowning.

They eat in silence for a bit, Abbie chiding herself for upsetting him. Then she remembers. “Thank you again, Dr. Crane,” she quietly says. “For staying with me and warming me up.”

“You are welcome, Miss Mills,” Crane replies.

“I hope your work isn't suffering because of me,” she says. “You haven't really had any time to spend in your laboratory since I… ran off. Sorry about that.”

“It will hold,” he says. The problem isn't his _work_ suffering because of her, it's his heart that is suffering. “I was able to go and do my watering before you awoke this morning.”

“If there are any other matters to which you need to attend, please… you don't have to wait on me,” she quietly says. “Especially because my injuries… and yours,” she glances at his arm, still wrapped in gauze, “are my fault.”

He looks truly surprised. “I think you'll find that the fault lies with me,” he says.

“I ran away.”

“You would not have fled if I hadn't behaved like a be—” He cuts himself off before he says the word.

“Shared blame, then,” she replies, deftly sidestepping. She knows what word he stopped himself from saying, and the fact that he thinks of himself that way makes her inexplicably, indescribably sad. She gives him a small smile, then sets her bowl aside. “This was very good. Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” he answers. “And thank _you._ I know my culinary skills are meager in comparison to yours, so your praise means a lot.”

She chuckles. “This isn't a competition.”

Her words seem to spark something in him, and he does that curious eyebrow raise thing again. “I don't suppose you know how to play chess, do you?”

“I do,” she answers, a sly smile spreading across her face.

“Are you well enough for a game?” he asks.

“I think I could manage, now that I've got some food in me,” she answers.

 

xXx

 

Crane insists on carrying Abbie down to the library, where his chess set is. The board is made of marble squares set into an ornately carved pedestal table. There are drawers in each end that contain the pieces, which are also marble. Abbie had admired it, first while cleaning it, then while spending time in the library, and wondered how her chess skills would match up to his. She was never brave enough to ask for a game though.

He gently sets her on her feet, then holds her hand, steadying her as she sits.

“Thank you,” she says, almost whispering. Her head only spins a little bit, but she doesn't wobble. She opens her drawer and starts taking her pieces out and putting them in place.

“Forgive my asking, but how does a humble tavern cook know how to play chess?” he asks. “I am merely curious,” he adds, hoping she does not think he is looking down at her. He gestures towards her with a furry hand, indicating she can move first.

“My sister and I were… taken in by the town sheriff for a time after our parents died,” she says, moving a pawn. “He was highly educated and taught us many things. Jenny wasn't much interested in chess, but I was. He taught her how to hunt instead.”

“So you do not hunt?” he asks, making his move.

“I can, but I'm not as good at it as Jenny is,” she admits. “We have very different strengths.”

“Indeed,” he agrees, smiling a little. “You are a thinker. She is a do-er.”

Abbie chuckles, not surprised at his astute assessment of her younger sister despite their brief acquaintance. “Oh trust me, I do plenty of doing. I just stop to think about what it is I'm doing first,” she says, moving another piece.

“Which could be why Miss Jenny was not interested in the game of chess,” he says, fingers hovering over his knight.

“She said it was 'boring' and she'd rather watch paint dry,” she comments, capturing one of his pieces. His eyes widen slightly, and she adds, “Sheriff Corbin was a good teacher.”

Crane chuckles, a low rumble, and it is such an unexpected, welcome sound, that Abbie's face lights up.

He regards her curiously, fingers of his right hand twitching as they hover over his pieces.

“I don't think I've heard you laugh before,” she explains. “Somehow I don't think you've done a lot of laughing over these past few years.”

His smile fades, but his expression remains soft. “No. I haven't.”

 

xXx

 

When Crane brings her breakfast the next morning, Abbie notices he has bled through the bandage on his arm.

“That dressing should be changed,” she comments, pointing at it with her spoon.

“It is fine,” he replies, turning slightly, moving so his injured arm is further away.

“Did you properly clean it before you bandaged it?” she asks.

“I cleaned it.”

“Is it a scratch or a bite? Because if it's a bite you might have—”

“It is a scratch,” he answers. “And it does not trouble me.”

She slowly nods, then returns to her porridge. “You're eating with your left hand,” she says after a few minutes.

He glowers at her, but doesn't respond.

“Don't be difficult just because I beat you at chess,” she goads.

He snorts, and she can't tell if it is from derision, amusement, or a complicated combination of the two

“Let me take a look,” she says, her voice gentler.

“No.”

“It's on your right arm, and you're right handed. It can't be easy for you to tend with only your non-dominant hand,” she presses. “Let me see.”

He sets his bowl down. “You're not going to relent, are you?” he asks, but it's more of a statement than a question.

“No,” she answers. “And unless you want me limping around and finding my own first aid supplies, I suggest you bring me some fresh dressings, clean water, and…” she pauses, thinking, “Ah. Dried calendula flowers, if you have any.”

He sighs and stands. “Of course I do. How would you like them prepared, Physician?” he drily asks. He knows that calendula flowers are excellent for healing, but there are a variety of ways in which they can be applied.

“Boiled, if you please. And bring an extra cloth to use as a compress,” she says, handing him her bowl.

He takes it, his fingers brushing hers. He stands a moment longer, simply regarding this woman, this… wonder who has invaded his life and is now giving him orders like _she_ is the lady of the manor. “I shall return presently,” he says, turns on his heel, and leaves.

He gathers the supplies she has requested, and while he waits for the water to boil so he can steep the calendula flowers, he moves to the window and gazes out over his back garden.

Fresh snow had fallen overnight, but he can make out the shape of another fallen blossom. Even so, he knows every petal and leaf on the rosebush and knows exactly which one has dropped. He can see every place where there used to be a bloom as clearly as he can see the flowers that remain.

There are only three left. He sighs and heads back to the kitchen.

By the time he returns to Abbie's room, she is dressed and sitting at a small table in the sitting area.

“You should be resting,” he says.

“My head feels better,” she replies. “I'm not going to _do_ anything, and if I start feeling dizzy or my head starts hurting, I'll lie down,” she adds.

He nods and sits, obediently placing his right arm before her. He holds his breath, waiting for her to hesitate or even recoil at the prospect of touching him.

She doesn't. She works very deliberately and gently, not giving any sign of being uncomfortable with his unusual appearance. When she peels the last of the bandage away, she gives him a stern look. It appears very similar to one he would receive from his mother when he would track mud or bring a toad into the house.

“I thought you said you cleaned this,” she reproachfully says. She inspects the gash, and while it is ugly, it does appear to be healing a bit and does not need stitches.

“I did,” he insists. “As best I could.” He cannot meet her gaze.

She cleans the wound with some of the plain boiled water he brought, dabbing away the dried blood. Then she sighs and reaches for a small pair of scissors and begins very carefully cutting away some of the fur around the wound. “There's no infection,” she says. “Yet. Another day and there would have been.” She looks up at him, a thought occurring to her. “Are you trying to slowly and painfully kill yourself by septic shock?” she gently scolds.

“The thought had crossed my mind,” he mutters. The look she gives him is one he isn't expecting. She looks shocked, but also disappointed. In him. Though he might welcome death, she doesn't pity him and does not want him to die.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she says, setting the scissors aside. She reaches for the cloth she has had soaking in the calendula tea, wrings it out a bit, and places it over his wound. “Let that sit.”

He nods, still looking at the table. “Thank you,” he says after a few minutes.

“It's no trouble,” she replies.

“No… thank you for… for not pitying me. For not treating me like…”

“Like you think you deserve, for whatever reason?” she finishes.

He finally looks at her, his sad blue eyes piercing into her. “Yes.” The single word is spoken in a coarse whisper. “I had forgotten what kindness was, sequestered away like this. Kindness. Laughter. Beauty.”

Now Abbie averts her gaze, turning her attention to the cloth on his arm, lifting a corner. It's drying quickly on his extra-warm arm, and she carefully peels it off.

She sets about re-bandaging, not saying anything. She doesn't know what to say anymore. Despite the initial circumstances of their association, she finds she _likes_ this strange botanist. Likes him rather a lot.

“Van Brunt will be here tomorrow,” he says, standing. “If there is anything you need, please make a note.”

She nods. “All right.”

He heads to the door, then stops. “You may also write to your sister. I will have Van Brunt give it to the innkeeper to pass along to her.”

She smiles, remembering what he said about his associate being a womanizer. “I think Jenny would be able to hold her own against your man, but thank you.”

He huffs a short laugh, inclined to agree. “No, Miss Mills. Thank _you_.”


	7. In Which Rules are Broken

“No! Katrina, no, please!”

“Dr. Crane…” Abbie urgently says, squeezing his hand. She reaches out, hesitates, then pats his cheek, trying to wake him.

Three days have passed since Abbie's attempted flight. Her ankle is getting better, and she can now stand for more than a few minutes at a time without getting dizzy. She has started cooking again and plans to resume cleaning tomorrow.

But right now, just after midnight, she is attempting to rouse Crane from a nightmare that had him yelling loud enough to wake her in her rooms down the corridor from his.

She had hesitated outside his door, mindful of his instructions, but when he let out a wordless, gut-wrenching scream, she said, “To hell with it,” and went inside.

“ _Ichabod_ ,” she urges, smoothing the longer hair on his head back, then patting his cheek again.

Crane finally jolts awake, sitting up and breathing heavily. He feels damp all over from sweat and tears and his heart is racing. Someone is holding his hand, and he turns and looks into the concerned face of Abigail Mills.

“You were having a nightmare,” she comments. He absently nods and she softly asks, “Who is Katrina?” while patting his hand as she sits on the edge of his bed.

In his room.

Still agitated from his dream, he lashes out. “What are you doing in here? This is the _one_ place forbidden to you!”

She drops his hand and stands up. _Some gratitude._ “You were yelling in your sleep!” she shoots back. “What was I supposed to do, ignore you?”

“Yes!”

“Fine!” she shoots back, then stomps out, her anger snapping his reason back into place.

“Abbie—” he says as the door slams with surprising force. He leans forward, his head in his hands, his anger turning inward once again. _Where it belongs._ He quietly curses, then flips the blankets back and gets out of bed, grateful that he was at least covered while she was in his room. His elevated body temperature makes it difficult for him to sleep wearing any clothing, and not _all_ of him is covered in fur.

He pads to the window, opening it a crack to allow some cool air in for a few seconds. It is actually quite cold out, so a few seconds is all that is needed.

He closes the window but stays there, gazing out over the garden. There is just enough light for him to see a rose fall from the bush and land on the snow.

He turns, sinking to the floor, head in his hands once again.

_How can you expect her to return your feelings when you keep treating her this way? When you cannot even fully share yourself with her? And now she is likely going to flee again, and has every reason to do so._

 

xXx

 

They avoid each other most of the day. Abbie makes Crane's breakfast, setting his place in the dining room, but she doesn't join him.

She doesn't pay her customary mid-morning visit to the laboratory.

His lunch is waiting for him when he comes looking for it, but she is still absent.

He decides to go looking for her after lunch, convinced she is planning on leaving again, if she hadn't slipped out while he was eating his lunch.

When he can't find her, he tamps down the panic that begins to rise, knowing that if she leaves a second time, she won't come back.

_But her ankle still is not completely mended. Surely she wouldn't attempt a walk through the uneven ground of the forest all the way back to Sleepy Hollow._

Her door is open, so he peeks inside, listening with his keen ears for any sound. He can see the bed through the door separating the sitting room from the sleeping chamber, and it is neatly made, with no telltale Abbie-sized lump beneath its covers. The room is silent.

_Of course, you do not know what she wrote to her sister. Perhaps she entreated Miss Jenny to come and meet her so she would have help._

He sighs, resting his forehead on the door.

He has a headache now, and he decides to go to his room and lie down. To think about how to proceed. How he is going to survive without her. If it is worth surviving at all if it means he must spend the rest of his days in this form.

He did not expect to find her standing in his room, staring at the painting of his mother on the wall.

“You are not supposed to be in here,” Crane says, gently this time. He is so relieved to see her that he finds he truly no longer cares where she goes, as long as it isn't away.

“Is this your mother?” Abbie asks, choosing to ignore his comment. She knows full well that returning to the scene of the crime wasn't the wisest move, but she needed to come back and take another look at the portraits she spotted on the walls, this time in daylight. There are three, one of a stern-looking older man, clearly his father. The second is of a beautiful woman with long, chestnut hair and Crane's eyes. The third portrait is torn, slashed across the middle with what were clearly claws. _His_ claws. She delicately attempted to put the pieces back in place, and could see enough to know that it is a portrait of Ichabod Crane before he was turned. She could see enough to know that he was a very handsome man.

“Yes,” he answers, standing beside her in front of the painting. “She died ten years ago. She was ill, and I couldn't help her.”

“It's not your fault she died,” she replies, able to see that he feels guilty about not being able to do anything for her. “Some illnesses can't be cured,” she softly adds.

“She had the wasting sickness,” he explains. “I still tried, though I knew it was futile.”

“I'm sorry,” Abbie says. “Did it take a very long time?”

“No. Is it wrong to be thankful that she didn't suffer long, though I was not ready for her to go?”

“Not at all. Long and drawn out is much worse. I can say that with some certainty,” she replies.

He looks down at her, a question on his face.

“Sheriff Corbin. He was injured on the job. The wound grew infected, festered, and… took far too long to finish him off,” she says.

He glances down at the bandage on his arm, remembering her words a few days ago when she chided him for not taking care of himself, and feels like a heel. “I am sorry.”

“How did your father die?” she asks, pointing to his photo.

“Suddenly. He was in his study. Mother found him face down at his desk. The physician said it was likely his heart,” he answers, glancing at his father's portrait. “Mother fell ill two years later.”

“You weren't close to your father,” Abbie guesses.

“He was… distant. We… did not understand one another,” Crane confirms, but does not further elaborate. “I was much closer to Mother.”

She nods. “No siblings?”

“No. They were unable to have any more after me,” he replies. He always wondered if that was the reason his father never seemed to care much for him.

She absently nods again. “I was closer to my mother, too. Until she…” she pauses, unsure if she wants to open this door. “Fell ill.”

“You do not have to tell me,” he says, sensing her discomfort.

“It was her mind, not her body,” Abbie says. “It would… slip. She would see things. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes horrible. She'd forget who Jenny and I were. Our father had a really hard time with it. He almost left.”

“He would leave you and your sister alone with a mother who was mentally ill?” Crane asks, flabbergasted.

“He wanted to take us with him. Mama… she wouldn't let him, and we didn't want to leave her. He stayed, only to die a short time later. He was caught out in a blizzard and…” She trails off with a half shrug. "Then, that spring, Mama… well, she took her own life.”

Without thinking, he reaches over and clasps her hand in his. They are both still standing, facing the portrait of Emily Crane. “I cannot imagine,” he whispers.

“That's when Sheriff Corbin took us in. He was the one charged with searching for any other family members who could take us in. When there turned out to be none, he just had us move in with him. His wife was gone, and it was just him and his son, Joe. He was innkeeper as well as sheriff, and Jenny and I made ourselves useful.”

“I am glad he had both a home and a heart big enough to allow you and your sister in,” Crane comments.

Abbie nods again, drops his hand, and steps to the right, in front of the torn portrait. “This is you,” she declares.

“Yes.”

“Why did you destroy it? And why keep it hanging here in this state?” she asks, giving him a challenging look.

“You know why,” he says, unable to meet her gaze.

“Why do you hide?” she asks, moving again to stand in front of him. He simply raises his arms, showing her his answer. “No. Not from the world. From me.”

“I am not hiding from you anymore. You… no longer allow me to do so,” he says.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “I didn't force you. You wouldn't have taken your mask off if you really didn't want to.”

 _Can you not see that I am unable to deny you anything? Can you not hear my heart beating for you?_ “I know,” he quietly admits.

“But you're still hiding,” she points out.

He looks down, vaguely nodding, knowing she is not referring to his physical appearance. He looks at his feet for a moment, then says, “Why didn’t you flee? You know the doors aren't locked.”

Unable to allow herself to face the truth, the answer sticks in her throat. She steps closer and puts her hand on his uninjured arm. He looks at her. “The name you were yelling… Katrina? She was the witch, wasn't she? You never told me her name.” She slides her hand from his elbow to his wrist, stroking his soft fur. “There are more things you didn't say… you can tell me. Please, tell me.”

Crane heavily sits in a nearby chair, sighing. Abbie sits across from him, on the end of his bed, and waits.

He takes a moment to just drink her in. Her kindness, her understanding, her undeniable beauty. The way she looks at him as though he were a man, not a monster.

Then, he tells her. He tells her how he woke up the next morning a broken man. A beast. Terrified of his own reflection. How he withdrew from society, shutting himself into his house. How he set up his arrangement with Van Brunt, who was the only person who came looking for him. How even Van Brunt hasn't seen him, how _she_ is the only person he's allowed to see him in this state.

She attentively listens without saying a word. When he finishes, she stands and reaches down, briefly squeezing his hand. Then she goes to the window and looks down out of it. “That’s tied to it, isn’t it? The rosebush?”

He simply nods.

“Why are the flowers falling off?”

He hadn't planned on telling her, but the words come tumbling out. “It means the time I have in which to break this curse is almost up.” She turns to face him, and the emotion in his eyes draws a soft gasp from her lips.

“How do you break the curse?” she asks.

He wants to tell her _everything,_ but something holds him back from telling her about the Four Who Speak as One and how to break the curse. He doesn't want to influence her feelings in any way.

He doesn't want to get his hopes up.

She steps closer and he avoids her steady gaze, her large dark eyes the color of rich earth, but translucent like gemstones. “I…” he starts, unsure what to say. “I cannot tell you. I want to, but I…”

She nods, looking down. “All right,” she whispers, knowing better than to press. _I'm sure he has a very good reason to not tell me._

He stands. “Please believe me when I say—”

“I do believe you, Ichabod,” she softly interjects, calling him by his given name to his face for the first time. She can't bear any more pained explanations from him. Watching him suffer is getting more and more difficult as each day passes.

“You are free to leave whenever you wish,” he gently murmurs, then leaves her standing alone in his room.


	8. In Which Confessions are Made

“You're still here,” Crane dumbly comments when he hears her bustling about in the kitchen. He spent the afternoon hiding in his laboratory, trying to work. He was continually distracted by the knowledge that there is only one rose left on the bush in the garden. He found himself almost obsessively going to the window to check on it, to confirm that it hadn't fallen.

But he knows it will fall soon. Its petals are just beginning to droop and it doesn't look as bright.

“I hope roast chicken is all right,” Abbie replies. She really wanted to say “Of course I'm still here,” but then she would have to explain herself and she's not sure if she can right now.

When he left her standing in his room several hours ago, her head was spinning, but there was one thing about which she was certain: She does not want to leave. Not yet. Not until she finds out what happens when the last rose falls. Not until she sorts out the tumult of emotions rolling inside of her.

“Of course it is,” he replies. She could serve him sautéed rat meat and he would eat it and praise her on her culinary prowess. “It smells delicious.”

“Ten minutes,” she says, walking across to a cupboard.

He notices she is still limping. “You should be resting your ankle,” he comments.

“I have all evening to do that,” she replies.

It suddenly occurs to him that her injured ankle may be the only reason she is staying. Unable to bear such a thought, he nods and exits the kitchen, going to freshen up before dinner. It may be the last meal he shares with her, so he wishes to look his best.

 

xXx

 

“There is only one rose left,” Abbie remarks, pushing her empty plate slightly away.

Crane finishes his last bites, and nods. “I know.” He takes a sip of his wine and quietly adds, “You should go.” His voice is kind. He's not dismissing her; he's setting her free.

“Why?”

“I do not know what will happen to me after it falls,” he admits.

“You said that it simply meant the time you had to break the curse will be up,” she says. “I assume that means you'll just be stuck like this,” she gestures towards him, “for the rest of your life.”

“I assumed that as well, but… I no longer know what to expect. I made assumptions about you that turned out to be completely incorrect. I made assumptions about Katrina when I was originally associated with her. I would not put it past her to exact some sort of… _further_ punishment on me once the rosebush is bare,” he says.

She tilts her head slightly. “I suppose that is possible,” she allows. _Katrina must have had some temper._

“I do not know if I could bear it… it has already been more than three years, and those three have felt as long as ten. I never harbored any _real_ hope of lifting this curse, but… now that I am faced with the prospect of the rest of my life this way, I am not certain I _want_ to live out the rest of my days as…” His words drift off as the voices of the Four speak in his head. It is not like a thought, it is almost as though they are speaking inside his head.

_Offer your heart without reservation, and if it is received and returned, your curse will be lifted._

“Dr. Crane?” Abbie asks, concerned at his sudden silence and slightly haunted expression. His intimation that he may take his own life if he is forced to remain a beast frightens her a little.

“Miss Mills,” he says. “Abbie, I…” He starts again and fails. He downs his goblet, looking for courage at the bottom of it. _You may be damned either way, so give it a go, man._ “I know it is dreadfully unfair to lay this burden on you, but I must… before I no longer can…”

“What burden?” she asks, leaning forward, towards him. They dispensed with sitting at opposite ends of the long dining table after he revealed himself to her, and she is close enough to reach out and touch his hand. So she does.

He closes his eyes. “I have fallen in love with you,” he confesses, now afraid to open his eyes again for fear of her reaction. Especially when he hears the soft intake of her breath and feels her lift her hand from over his.

His heart sinks.

Abbie stares at him, her hand over her mouth, and it is as if the last piece of a difficult puzzle has slid into place. Hearing _him_ say it brought her own swirl of confusion into focus, and she feels like she is staring at the completed puzzle, bearing an image of the two of them together, Crane's form shifting between the beast beside her and the man in the torn painting upstairs.

And suddenly she _knows._ She knows what will break his curse. She knows it as surely as she knows her name.

And even if it isn't the solution, she doesn't care.

She reaches up and lightly strokes his brow. “Ichabod.”

The soft brush of her fingertips makes his eyes fly open wide.

“I love you, too,” she says.

“You do?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper. His eyes are searching her face, shining and soft. “Oh…” he softly exclaims, and lifts his hands, almost as an afterthought, staring at them to see if he is changing.

“Was that it?” Abbie softly asks, expectantly looking at him. “Was that what was supposed to break the curse?”

“Yes,” Crane exhales, dropping his hands, disappointed. His emotions are in turmoil. He is elated that she loves him, but crushed that he is still a beast. He doesn't know what to do, so he does what he usually does when he doesn't know what to do. “Excuse me,” he says, rising and striding quickly from the dining hall, leaving her there gaping after him.

“Dr. Cr— Ichabod!” she calls, the slamming of the door snapping her out of her shocked stupor. She gets up and runs after him.

Another slammed door tells her where he is, and she runs to his room only to find he's locked her out. She pounds on the door. “Ichabod, open the door.” There is no response. She can hear something shatter inside. “Please,” she adds, her voice breaking.

“I have been deceived,” he snaps. “It was either by the witches or… or you…” he pauses, his voice pained. “But it does not matter, because I am still a _beast!_ ” There is another sound of something shattering as he bellows his last word.

Abbie places her hand on the door for a second, head bowed. Then she takes a deep breath, straightens her back, and squares her shoulders. “You listen here, _Doctor_ Ichabod Crane!” she yells at the door. “How _dare_ you even _suggest_ that my words were false! Have I _ever_ lied to you? No, I haven't. Not once. So for you to stand there, behind a closed door, and fling accusations at me simply because you are upset after I _told you I love you_ has got to be the most selfish, thoughtless thing I've ever heard!” There is silence from inside the room, and she leans her head against the wood of the door. “Hear me, Ichabod Crane: I don't care if you're a monster for the rest of your life, because you're _my_ monster, and I _still_ love you, damn your eyes!”

A few seconds later, there is the scrape of metal against metal as the bolt is slid free. Abbie lifts her head from the door just before it opens.

“I am sorry,” Crane says, looking down at her. Her face is wet with tears, and he truly does feel like a monster because _he_ put those tears there. He hesitantly reaches up and wipes her cheeks with his thumbs. His touch is soft and extremely careful, not wanting to accidentally scratch her with his claws. “In that moment, I was thinking only of myself. It is no excuse, but I have been alone for rather a long time,” he offers her a weak smile.

She gently pushes his chest and walks into the shambles of his room. “I understand your anger,” she says. “I truly do. And I’m not saying it isn’t warranted. You have every right to be angry.” Then she turns to face him. “I merely took exception to it being pointed at me—”

“Again,” he sheepishly supplies.

“ _Again_ ,” she agrees. “And that you shut me out instead of looking to me for comfort or assistance.”

He nods, looking at his feet.

“Do you really think they lied to you?” she asks, stepping closer.

“I do not know. They seemed genuine. However, their willingness to help me was mainly fueled by their hatred for Katrina, so it is possible they were not as true with their words as they seemed,” he explains.

“Sounds like Katrina wasn't really in the business of making friends,” she drily comments.

“Apparently not,” he replies. “Would you like to hear?”

“Of your visit to these possibly-deceitful witches?” she asks, and he nods. “Maybe later. We have other issues with which to deal right now.”

“Of course,” he allows. He cleans the debris from a chair and motions for her to sit.

“What happened the last time? When you changed _into_ this form?” she asks, shifting into problem-solving mode.

“I blacked out,” he tells her. “Everything went black, and I woke up like this.”

“So, doesn't it follow that the same would happen when you change back?” she asks.

“Well yes, but I have not lost consciousness,” he answers, pacing. He steps on bits of broken mirror and pottery with his unshod feet, but it doesn't seem to affect him at all.

“Hmm,” she ponders, staring at the shards of mirror on the floor, then at him, pacing like a caged animal, agitatedly running his hand through his hair. _He really does have quite the flair for dramatic displays._

 _Wait. Drama. Stories._ Abbie looks up. “Maybe it’s like how it is in children's stories,” she says, suddenly on her feet. She crosses to Ichabod and stands in front of him, blocking his path.

He abruptly stops to avoid mowing her down, his hands catching her elbows. “What stories?”

“The enchanted princess always has to be woken, or… have her curse broken, or _something_ by—”

“A kiss,” he finishes. His eyebrow arches. “So I am the enchanted princess?” he asks, amusement touching his lips for the first time tonight.

She nods. “And I am the dashing prince.” She lifts up on tiptoe, her face tilted towards his.

“I do not really have much by the way of lips… in this form,” he says. He wants to kiss her more than anything, but he also wants her to know what to expect.

“Yeah, and you’re also covered in fur. It doesn't matter. We’ll make do,” she lightly responds, snaking one hand around the back of his neck to pull his face the last few inches down to meet hers.

The kiss is soft and a little tentative, but very sweet. Crane feels it down to his toes, and his hands shift from her elbows to around her back, pulling her closer as their shyness begins to melt away.

They slowly pull apart and regard one another with slightly dazed eyes. Waiting. Abbie’s grip on him tightens in case he starts to collapse, but he doesn't.

After about 30 seconds, they give up. He kisses her forehead, then gently releases her.

“Thank you for trying,” he finally says. “It was a wonderful kiss, but unfortunately, was not the key.”

 _It_ was _a wonderful kiss._ She didn’t mind his thin lips or fuzzy face at all, and kind of wants to do it again, but knows there will be time later. “Maybe it has to be a certain time,” she theorizes, heavily sitting in the chair. “Like the stroke of midnight, or…” She looks up, an idea occurring to her. “Is the last rose still on the bush?”

He goes to the window and peers out. Then he opens it and thrusts his head outside. Abbie shivers from the blast of cold, but waits. “Yes, but it looks like it's going to fall soon. The petals are quite droopy and the branch is hanging lower than usual.”

“You can see all that from here, in this light?” she asks, impressed.

“There are a few benefits to this form,” he answers, closing the window. “Oh, I am sorry for the cold,” he quickly apologizes.

“It's all right,” she says, standing and walking to him. “I think we should just… wait. Wait and see what happens. If the rose falls and you haven't changed, then we'll come up with another plan. We’ll go… find those witches. Or some _other_ ones.”

“I am not good at being patient,” he confesses.

She blinks up at him. “You're a botanist. How can you _not_ be patient?”

“I am patient with my plants. Not with myself,” he sighs. He gazes down at her. “Will you stay and wait with me?” he asks.

“Of course,” she answers, stepping close to him and wrapping her arms around his torso. She rests her cheek against his chest and his arms slowly wrap around her. He drops his head, pressing his lips against the crown of her head.

When they part, he slides his hand down her arm and takes her hand, leading her to the bed. “It will be more comfortable,” he awkwardly explains. There is only one chair in the room.

“I believe you,” she says, chuckling. “Besides, it isn't like we haven't shared a bed before.”

She removes her shoes and climbs up onto the bed, immediately tucking herself against his side. As usual, he is very warm and comfortable.

“I meant it when I said I would still love you if you don't change back,” she reiterates.

“I know,” he answers.

They sit quietly for a short time, listening to the tick of a clock hanging on the wall that had survived Crane’s earlier rampage.

“Tell me,” Abbie says at length. “About the visit to these witches.”

He takes a deep breath and slowly releases it. “I suppose we have naught but time,” he concurs.

 

xXx

 

They talk for hours, only occasionally pausing to see to personal necessities and to build, then periodically tend the fire. He tells her about the Four. She tells him more about her difficult childhood. He talks more about his mother and how she fostered his love of plants and science despite his father's wishes that he take an interest in the family shipping business.

“I'm sure he respected your decision to be your own man on some level,” Abbie sleepily reassures him.

“Perhaps if he had lived long enough to see me achieve some successes,” Crane muses. “He was not as proud as I'd hoped he would be when I received my doctoral degree.”

“I'm sorry,” she murmurs, snuggling closer. Her eyes are closed, and she's finding it increasingly more difficult to keep them open.

“Sleep, my love,” he quietly says, reaching up to stroke her face.


	9. In Which the Last Rose has Fallen

“Abbie.” Crane's voice is soft, but urgent as he attempts to wake her. “Abbie,” he repeats, stroking her cheek.

“Mmm,” Abbie hums, grabbing his hand. He's spooned behind her now, and she pulls so his arm is wrapped around her. She blinks open a second and remembers she's in his room, in his bed.

And why.

Then it registers that his arm is still furry, and she is suddenly wide awake. “Ichabod,” she says, sitting up and turning around to stare at him with wide, concerned eyes. “You're still…” she strokes his face, “Is the rose…?”

“Fallen,” he says, his voice breaking. “The entire bush is nothing but sticks, in fact.”

She says nothing, simply pulling him to her, lying back down and cradling him in her arms as best she can. She feels his body heave; hears the sob escape as he falls apart on her chest.

She doesn't tell him not to cry. Doesn't whisper platitudes. She simply holds him and lets him do what he needs. Cries with him some.

“I'm sorry,” she finally says once he's calmed down. She kisses the top of his head. “I still love you,” she reassures him.

He lifts his head. “You… you're certain?” he asks.

Abbie's irritation rises a little at him once again questioning her words, but she pushes it down, knowing that he is hurting right now and does not intend for the question to sound the way it does. “Ichabod,” she says, smoothing his hair back, “I always say what I mean. If I was uncertain, I wouldn't say it.”

He drops his gaze.

“Should I ask you if you are certain you love me?” she quietly asks.

He stares up at her, understanding dawning. His blue eyes are still somewhat bleary, but appear less pained than before. “Forgive me,” he whispers. “I did not mean—”

She gently places her fingertips against his lips. “I know you didn't,” she answers. She takes one of his hands in hers, pensively rubbing his fingers. “But if you ask me again, I will break your fingers, all right?” she adds, a sweet smile on her face.

His lips twitch and he replies, “All of them or just specific ones?”

 

xXx

 

“We need to find those witches,” Abbie says, setting a bowl of porridge in front of Ichabod in the dining room. They had to clear the dinner dishes from the previous night before having breakfast, as they had been abandoned and forgotten in all the upheaval.

“Yes,” he agrees, hoping that a full belly will help him think more clearly. He's still quite unhappy, but she wouldn't allow him to spend the day in bed. She even went so far as to suggest – insist – that they clean up his still-mostly-destroyed rooms sometime today. “Find them and demand an explanation as to why they lied to me.”

Abbie ponders her breakfast a moment, then asks, “Do you think it's possible that they didn't exactly lie to you?”

“What do you mean?” Crane asks, frowning a bit.

“Well, maybe they thought the love thing would do it. Maybe it was _supposed_ to have done it. It certainly makes sense, given all that you've told me about the circumstances.” She pauses a moment. “Is there anything else? Anything you've left out?”

He thinks a moment. “No.”

She puts her spoon down and nods. “So maybe that… Katrina person messed up? You did say she was pretty angry. Anger frequently causes mistakes.”

“I suppose it is possible. It is as viable an option as the witches deceiving me,” he allows. “Unfortunately, we will have to wait before we can journey to Pocantico Hills to find them,” he adds.

“What? Why?” she asks.

“The weather is far too treacherous for you to travel right now, to say nothing of your ankle, which is still not completely healed,” he answers, reaching over for her hand. “I can withstand the elements in this form, but you…” he shakes his head, “I cannot in good conscience…” he trails off, puzzling. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because you didn't even consider going without me,” she answers, reaching over and squeezing his hand.

His eyebrow rises and he says, “Oh, I know better than that.”

“Is Mr. Van Brunt coming today?” she asks, standing.

He reaches out and collects their empty bowls before she can grab them and follows her to the kitchen. “Yes,” he answers. “Do you need some things?”

“A few things, yes. I'm also anxious to see if he has a letter from Jenny,” she says. “You don't have to help me,” she says when she notices him reaching for a towel.

“It is my fault the dinner dishes were left,” he protests. “The least I can do is help clean up.” Then he bends down and softly kisses her on the lips. “It also allows me to spend more time with you this morning.”

She smiles, then leans up and kisses him in return. “Since you have the towel, you can dry.”

 

xXx

 

Van Brunt does bring a letter from Jenny. It is filled with questions and not-so-thinly veiled threats directed at Ichabod. She also lets slip that Joe confessed to feeling something more than friendship for her and she “may or may not feel the same way”. Abbie chuckles as she reads this to Crane while he works in the laboratory.

“Your sister is a fascinating woman,” he comments. “As are you, of course.” He gives her a shy smile, his blue eyes twinkling.

“Mama was really something, too. Um, you know, _before_ ,” she says. She likes being in here with him while he works. He's generally happy in his laboratory, amongst his plants, and his mood has improved considerably since breakfast.

“I am certain she was,” Crane agrees. He pulls his gloves off and sets them on the table, then comes over to where Abbie is perched on an empty spot on a workbench. “Abbie, my love…”

She watches him approach, wondering what is on his mind. He looks a little apprehensive. “Yes?”

“If you would like to… invite your sister and Mr. Corbin to… join us for Christmas dinner… that would be…”

“Satisfactory?” she finishes, smiling up at him.

“Yes,” he answers. He does not look at ease with extending the invitation, but he seems resolved.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks, taking his hands and pulling him closer.

“No,” he admits. “But… there is a chance that this,” he looks down at himself, “may become my permanent form, and, well, I cannot ask you to give up your sister, your only family, for me. And since I have no intention of giving _you_ up, the only alternative is to… open my home – and myself – to Miss Jenny.”

A few tears have slipped from Abbie's eyes while Ichabod was speaking, and he reaches up with one hand to wipe them away. “Thank you, Ichabod,” she whispers, parting her knees to allow him to move closer, and her skirts envelop his legs as he steps forward. She presses her face into his neck as his arms move to hold her. “I'll explain everything to her in the letter,” she says, pulling him closer still so she can wrap her arms around him.

“Please do,” he sighs, resting his cheek on the top of her head. “Somehow I do not think your sister will be very amenable to any sort of explanation from me.”

Abbie lifts her head, leaning back to look at him. “I'll ask her not to punch you again, too,” she says with a smile.

Ichabod leans forward and kisses her. “I would appreciate that very much,” he says, then kisses her again. He tries to step back but she tightens her hold on him, keeping him close.

“I haven't finished kissing you,” she whispers, pecking his lips twice before adding, “I like being at eye level with you.”

“Not only eye level,” he agrees, kissing her again, longer.

Her hands move up to cup his face, the softness of his fur now familiar under her palms. His kiss is soft and sweet, but she wants more. She squeezes his waist with her knees and slips her tongue forward, flicking his upper lip just enough. He startles just slightly, surprised at her forward behavior, but finds he likes it. Rather a lot.

However, just before he opens his lips to meet her curious tongue with his and taste her delicious mouth, he pulls back and says, “My teeth…”

“You won't hurt me,” she whispers, then seals her lips over his before he can further protest.

Crane returns her kiss, making a low growling noise in the back of his throat. The sound sends a wave of heat through Abbie's body.

 _What was that and how can I get him to do it again?_ She slides one hand up to thread her fingers through the hair on top of his head as their tongues meet again and again, their kisses not hindered at all by his slightly elongated canines.

When her legs wrap around his waist, he growls again, and Abbie softly moans, wantonly pressing her body against his.

“Abbie,” he gasps, pulling away, breathing heavily. Another 30 seconds and he would have her on this table, and that is not how it should happen. _Not for our first time_ , he vaguely thinks, mentally chiding himself for his coarseness. _I will not dishonor her._

“I guess we got a little carried away,” she says, her lips tingling. She reaches out for his hand.

“Forgive me,” he apologizes, kissing her hand.

“Why are you apologizing? I am as much to blame,” she chuckles. “Probably more so.”

“I am apologizing because I… I did not _want_ to stop,” he admits, carefully watching her reaction. He feels like he knows her so well sometimes, but there are times where he realizes there is still so much he doesn't know about her.

And when she smiles, he finds he isn't as surprised as he thought he would be.

“But you did,” she says, bringing their still-joined hands to her lips and kissing his knuckles. “I'll go see to our lunches,” she says. He moves his hands to her waist and helps her down from the bench. “Get back to work,” she adds, heading towards the door as he returns to his bean plants.

“If this hybrid works out, I'm going to name it after you,” he says.

Her surprised laughter rings through the laboratory like music, and when she reaches the door, she turns and says, “Ichabod?”

“Hmm?”

“I didn't want to stop either,” she says, then disappears, leaving him staring at the closed door.

 

xXx

 

“So. You were cursed by a witch, some _other_ witches told you that she was dead but true love would break your curse as long as it happens before your rosebush died,” Jenny says, still clearly trying to wrap her brain around this whole ordeal as they sit in the parlor after Christmas dinner.

Abbie sighs, actually surprised her sister waited this long to say anything about their situation. “Yes, Jenny, I told you all this in the letter,” she replies.

“I want to hear it from tall, dark, and fuzzy over here,” Jenny counters.

“Jenny, that's really not necessary,” Abbie says.

Ichabod gives her hand a reassuring squeeze before he squares his shoulders and meets Jenny's penetrating stare with his own piercing blue gaze. “Miss Jenny, I apologize again for my treatment of both you and your sister upon our initial meeting. But you must understand—”

Jenny holds up her hand. “I do understand. You were protecting what is yours. I get that. I probably would have done the same thing if I were you. Probably more, if I'm completely honest.”

Abbie and Joe both nod their agreement. Jenny elbows Joe and gives Abbie a brief glare.

“But… a curse?” Jenny asks, looking back and forth between Abbie and Crane, seated together across from herself and Joe. Crane is holding Abbie's hand in his lap, and the two appear to be a perfectly normal couple apart from the fact that he is covered in brown fur and has pointy ears. He is even fully dressed for company's sake.

“Jen, you know there are witches around,” Joe says. “Dad even said—”

“I _know_ there are,” Jenny replies, looking at Joe. “But I always thought they were pretty harmless. Our great aunt Grace was a witch, Joe. She made medicines. Delivered babies. Blessed homes. You know, _helped_ people.”

“Jenny, regular people can be irrational jerks who can't handle rejection, so why not a witch? I mean, yes, she was a witch, but she was still a person,” Abbie says. “A person who just happened to put a curse on a good man simply because he didn't reciprocate her feelings.”

“I suppose it does seem possible,” Jenny allows, deflating a little.

“You just don't _want_ to accept it,” Abbie assesses, narrowing her eyes at her younger sister.

“Maybe,” Jenny allows, trying not to smile.

“So why didn't it work then?” Joe asks. “You guys love each other; it should have broken the spell.”

“We do not know,” Crane says.

“Are you sure you love my sister?” Jenny asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

Crane was prepared for this. “Miss Mills has brought light into my dark existence. She is the first person I have allowed to see me in this form,” he says. “Followed by the two of you. I am choosing to trust you because I love _her_ and you are important to her. Does that answer your question?”

Jenny looks at Joe. “Why don't you talk about me like that?”

“Because you'll punch me if I do,” he quite seriously answers.

Jenny tilts her head to the side, acknowledging the truth in Joe's answer, then returns her attention to her sister, who is now looking up at Crane as he adoringly gazes down at her. _Okay. I see it._ “So… since the one who did this to you is dead, you're going to find those other witches, right?” she asks.

“That is our plan,” Abbie answers. “Once the weather turns a little nicer.”

“Why wait? Oh. You're going with him, aren't you?” Jenny says, answering her own question.

“Of course I am,” Abbie replies. “Apart from the obvious reason, he may still need me to break the curse.”

“Are you going to be staying here until then?” Joe asks.

Abbie glances at Ichabod. “Yes. I'm sorry, Joe. Ichabod needs me more than you do.”

Joe nods, having expected this ever since Jenny marched into the inn, waving Abbie's letter in his face, ranting about how her sister “thinks she's in love with some sort of monster thing who is holding her captive”.

“I do have to say that this place looks a lot better than it did the last time I saw it,” Jenny allows. “Not that I really got to see much of it, of course,” she wryly adds.

“Abbie,” Joe says, leaning forward. “I know you're older than Jenny and me, but… I keep hearing my father's voice in my head. Questioning your living in this house with him, alone. Wondering about your traveling with him, unchaperoned…”

“Valid concerns, Mr. Corbin, and I appreciate your sense of responsibility and decorum,” Crane replies. He absently strokes the back of Abbie's hand and says, “And that is one of the reasons why Miss Mills and I intend to marry as soon as…” he glances at Abbie.

“As soon as we figure out how to do so without exposing Ichabod's secret,” she finishes. Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a ring. “He gave me this last night,” she says, looking down at it as she slides it on, watching how the deep green of the large emerald glints in the light. “It was his mother's.”

Jenny walks across the room, admires the ring, then tightly hugs her sister. “You're sure about this?” she whispers.

“Completely,” Abbie answers.

Jenny releases Abbie, then nods once. “Don't get married without me,” she says.

“Well, we'll need witnesses,” Abbie answers, glancing at Ichabod. “And we have a pretty limited pool from which to choose,” she adds, laughing.

“Oh good,” Jenny replies. “Now. To important matters: What did you make for dessert?”


	10. In Which Vows are Spoken

Abbie’s head turns sharply at the sound of a quiet knock on her door. She and Ichabod both retired for bed an hour ago, and the fact that he is seeking her out very late on the night before they are to be married immediately worries her. She hurries to the door, hastily donning a robe to cover the white linen nightgown she is wearing.

She opens the door to find him standing there, his face looking worried and a little alarmed. _He’s changed his mind._ When he doesn’t say anything, she cautiously asks, “What’s wrong, Ichabod?”

“May I come in?” His voice is quiet and slightly rough, and he is wearing a thick robe that she is sure hasn’t seen the light of day in over three years.

“Of course,” she says, stepping aside. When he still seems hesitant to tell her what is on his mind, she softly says, “You’re worrying me, Ichabod.”

“Forgive me, Love,” he says, sighing and looking down at his hands. “I was just now in my room… thinking about tomorrow, and… oh dear…”

“Yes. We’re to be married tomorrow,” she says, her worry not abating at all. “Don’t tell me you don’t want—”

“No!” he yelps, suddenly realizing how his demeanor and words must seem to her. He takes her hands in his. “I very, very much want to marry you, Abbie,” he reassures her, kissing her hands. “It is not the _wedding_ that has me troubled, you see…”

Light dawns, and Abbie almost laughs. “You’re concerned about… _after._ ”

He nods. “Please do not think me a cad, but I was pondering the events that should take place tomorrow night, and…”

“You’re not a cad for fantasizing about the woman you’re going to marry,” she says. “In fact, if you’re fantasizing about any woman, it had damn well _better_ be me.”

He looks up at her, eyes wide, but relaxes when he sees her smiling at him. “Yes,” he admits, chuckling. “Quite.”

She imagines he is probably blushing beet red beneath his fur, and her smile widens a little. “Come sit,” she says, tugging his hand to the loveseat against one wall. She rarely uses it, but this conversation seems more suited to the intimacy of the small sofa rather than the table and chairs.

He carefully sits, adjusting his robe to make sure he is adequately covered, and Abbie realizes he must be wearing nothing beneath it.

She files that information away under _Think About That Some More Later_ , and takes his hand. “What, exactly, is troubling you about tomorrow night?”

He heavily sighs, runs his free hand through his hair, and answers, “Two things, in fact.”

Abbie takes a guess at one of them. “You won't hurt me, and I'm not afraid.”

Ichabod opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “How did you…?”

“I've come to know you very well,” she explains. “Any time you get worried like this, it's because you're concerned about me. And since we've already established your concern was over tomorrow night…”

“So… you _do_ wish to partake in… marital relations… with me?” he asks.

She gives him an incredulous look. “Um, yes, of course I do,” she answers as though it is obvious. Because to her, it is. “Have I ever shied away from any sort of… physical affection from you?” she asks.

He looks down at her hand in his, then down to her small bare feet on the rug. Seeing them seems intimate somehow, like he is privy to a hidden part of her, and it only makes him think once more of tomorrow night, when he hopes to be able to see what else she has hidden from the world. “No,” he hoarsely answers. “But it doesn't seem… right that your first time be with—”

“I'm not a virgin,” she bluntly interjects, following his train of thought once again.

“Y-you're not?” he asks, only a little surprised. He never considered virginity to be the prized commodity some men seem to, and is actually relieved that she is not an innocent.

“No, I'm not. If you want to hear about it, I'll tell you, but just know that he is long gone,” she answers.

“Perhaps later,” he defers, not really wanting to know. _It doesn't matter._ “Honestly, I am… glad to hear it.”

“Good. Because I wasn't about to put up with any judgment from you about it,” she says, the corner of her lip curved in the barest smile.

“Never,” he promises, kissing her fingers.

“You said there were two things?” she prompts, her eyes unconsciously dropping to the bare lower halves of his legs. Even through the fur, she can see his legs are quite shapely and muscular.

“My concern is… what if you are to become with child? I fear if I impregnate you in this form,” he gestures towards himself, “our child will be… like me. Or only half a beast, which somehow seems worse.”

“Oh…” Abbie says, slowly nodding. She hadn't really given it that much thought. “But… you're still a man… under all this,” she says, reaching up and stroking his face. She lets her hand slide down to his neck, then his chest, allowing her hand to linger there in the vee of his robe a moment before withdrawing it.

“Well, yes, most of me is human enough… basic shape, and whatnot, but obviously the fur… my ears… nose… teeth… hands and feet…” he holds up one hand, its long, sharp claws clearly visible.

 _I wonder if we could trim those… file them down so they're not so dangerous,_ Abbie idly wonders. “I… I don't know,” she answers. “You're a scientist, so… try to think about it that way. Scientifically.”

He nods. “I am a botanist, not a biologist… nor a zoologist,” he says, smiling wryly at the last part. “But I do know that not all… creatures are biologically compatible. Even my bean experiments haven't always worked because the plants will not cross-breed,” he muses. “So there is a chance that I may not be _able_ to impregnate you while I am a beast.”

“Just a chance though,” she says, knowing this is not a chance he is willing to take.

“And that still does not answer the question of what traits I might pass on to our child,” he sighs. “I do not know the… extent to which this spell has affected me… internally.”

“And there's no way to find that out either,” she replies.

“Not without traveling a very great distance,” he says. “There are laboratories that have such capabilities, but only a few, and only in the largest cities.”

“Fascinating,” Abbie comments, settling back onto the loveseat and leaning her head on his shoulder. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he answers, twining his fingers with hers.

“We _are…_ you know… compatible… physically, right? I mean, I guess we wouldn't be having this conversation at all if we weren't… and I know what I've felt against my thigh once or twice…” She says all this rather haltingly, taking advantage of the fact that she is leaning against his shoulder to avoid looking at him.

His answering low chuckle doesn't offend her; it reassures her. “Yes, my love. We are. I can say that with complete confidence.”

“You don't have anything on under that robe, do you,” she says. It isn't a question.

“I do not,” he answers. “I get too—”

“Warm, I know,” she finishes. For a moment, she wonders if he would let her see him, but she quickly pushes that thought away, knowing he very likely would if she asked. She can wait one more night. She simply snuggles against his shoulder, curling her feet up under her now.

“You are tired,” he observes. “I should go so you can sleep.”

He begins to stand and she stops him. “Wait… we haven't really… decided what to do about our problem,” she says.

He leans over and kisses her. “We shall simply take measures to ensure you do not become with child,” he says, actually wishing for the first time that Katrina was still around, as that was one of her more popular “under the table” practices.

“All right,” she answers. “We'll figure it out. We always do.”

He kisses her again. “I love you, and tomorrow you will be my wife,” he whispers.

“And you will be my husband. My own personal teddy bear,” she replies, smiling against his lips.

“I'll thank you never to refer to me like _that_ again,” he says, but he cannot stop his laughter.

 

xXx

 

The next afternoon, Abbie looks down at her left hand, resting on her skirt, her brown skin contrasting against the white silk, the green emerald engagement ring now moved to her right hand to make room for her wedding band.

She lifts her right hand and looks at the ring, remembering the night he gave it to her, three weeks ago, on Christmas Eve.

_“Ah, here you are,” Ichabod said, stepping into the library._

_“Here I am,” Abbie replied, setting her book aside. “How are your mushrooms?”_

_“Flourishing,” he answered. She moved her feet from the other cushion of the settee on which she was lounging to make room for him. He immediately pulled her feet back into his lap._

_“Are they mushrooms for eating?” she asked._

_“No,” he answered._

_She half-shrugged, smiling. “Not that it matters to me. I can't stand the things.”_

_He smiled a little, and she realized he hadn't sought her out to talk about mushrooms. “Abbie…” he started, the softness of his tone confirming her realization._

_“What is it?” she asked, moving her feet from his lap to sit up and give him her full attention._

_He took her hands, his thumbs skating over her knuckles sending pleasant butterfly sensations into her stomach. “I once thought that my life was full. I was happy in my work, happy in my solitude… I did not think that…” he paused, kissing her hands, “female companionship was something I needed. Or wanted.”_

_“As you told Katrina,” Abbie quietly interjected._

_“Well remembered,” he replied, nodding. “And it proved to be a life-changing event. Little did I realize that this… catastrophe would lead you to my door.” He turned one of her hands and kissed the inside of her wrist. “And I am most grateful for it.”_

_“Me too,” she said, smiling up at him._

_“I told you that I had no intention of giving you up,” he continued, reaching over with one hand to stroke her cheek, then lowering his hand to his trouser pocket. “And I… I would like to ask for your promise that I shall never have to.” He held up a beautiful emerald ring. “I have no right to ask this of you while I am yet a… a beast, but… Grace Abigail Mills, will you be my wife?”_

_“Oh, Ichabod, of course I will,” Abbie answered, throwing her arms around his neck in a tight hug._

_“I had wanted to wait until I was restored to myself, but as there is no guarantee of that…” he said, pressing his face into her hair, inhaling her sweet, complex scent. She smells much richer to him because of his sensitive beast nose, which he suddenly appreciates._

_“I know,” she whispered, not needing to remind him that she will have him in either form._

_“But there are also practical reasons behind my asking sooner than I normally might have done,” he said, lifting his head. “You are living here, a single woman, alone with a single man. And while the only people that know this right now are your sister and Mister Corbin, we will soon be setting out together on a journey. It would not be seemly for you to accompany me without a proper chaperone.”_

_Abbie really doesn't care about being “seemly”, but she bites back her smile and says,“Yes, very practical indeed.” Then she offered him her left hand, and he slid the ring onto her finger._

_“This belonged to my mother,” Ichabod said, looking down at it perched proudly on her small hand. “She gave it to me before she died. Told me to only give it to the woman I planned to marry.” He lifted his gaze from her hand to her eyes. “The woman to whom I had already given my whole heart.”_

_“Your mother sounds like she was a wonderful woman,” she replied, moving her hand to thread her fingers between his._

_“She was. And she would have liked you very much,” he said, leaning forward. Abbie did the same, meeting him halfway to receive his kiss. “I love you, Abbie,” he murmured against her lips._

_“I love you, Ichabod,” she answered, sliding her hands up to cup his face, pulling him closer until he is over her on the settee._

_He kissed her deeply, not fully realizing how he had settled over her, how his hips were nestled between her knees. He was too distracted by her lips, her tongue, and her fingers._

_She made a noise between a sigh and a whimper, then slid her hand over his shoulder and down his chest. He is so warm, his heartbeat so strong under her palm. Then he lightly nipped her lower lip, and she gasped._

_“Sorry,” he murmured, making his kisses softer, trying to apologize as he reined in his animal nature that seemed to always rear its beastly head in these moments of passion._

_“No, I liked it,” she explained. “That was a good sound.”_

_He lifted his head and stared down at her, his eyes more black than blue. “Oh,” he answered, surprised, encouraged, and aroused by this revelation. “Oh,” he repeated, his voice darker, huskier. Then he dropped his head back down to hers, and when he kissed her this time, Abbie realized he had been holding back before._

_“Mmm,” she hummed, her fingers sliding over his scalp, the longish strands of his hair cool and silken against her hand._

_He unconsciously flexed his hips, and she felt the hard length of him pressing against her core. She arched beneath him, wanting to maintain the contact, but it only served to make him fully aware of how far they've gone._

_“Abbie,” he gasped, lifting his head for a second. “We should stop.” Then he kissed her again._

_“I know,” she answered, not letting go of him. She felt hot and damp all over – some places more than others – but she wasn't ready to stop, despite treading dangerous ground._

_“No.” Crane gathered his resolve, gave Abbie one more kiss, then lifted himself off of her. “You are positively disheveled, my love.”_

_Abbie giggled. “Who's fault is that?”_

A sharp knock on the door draws Abbie from her reverie. She is feeling rather hot and damp again, not only from the memory, but from the anticipation of what's to come tonight.

“Yes?” she calls, attempting to collect herself.

“Can I come in?” Jenny's voice sounds through the door.

“Of course,” Abbie answers. When the door opens, she adds, “I'm surprised you asked. Hell, I'm surprised you _knocked._ ”

“I'm full of surprises,” Jenny replies, smiling. “Like this.” She holds up a necklace.

“Is that Mama's?” Abbie asks, stepping closer.

Jenny nods, then fixes the locket around her sister's neck. “Now they're here with us.”

Abbie opens the locket and they both look at the tiny images of their mother and father. “She was so beautiful.”

“You look like her,” Jenny says.

“Yeah, but you've got her personality,” Abbie counters. “I mean…”

“I know you didn't mean it like _that,_ ” Jenny chuckles, hugging her sister. “I'm too crazy to lose my mind, you know that,” she teases. Her face turns serious for just a moment and she asks, “Hey… just a thought, but do you think maybe… _tonight_ will be what is needed to break Crane's curse?”

Abbie blinks in surprise; Jenny asked the question without a hint of smutty suggestiveness in her tone. “Um, maybe?” she answers, fidgeting with her ring. “The thought had occurred to me.”

“Did you talk about it?”

“Not that aspect of it,” Abbie answers, smiling a little. “We talked about that we should try _not_ to have children until he's not a beast anymore.”

“Good point,” Jenny says, then stares at her sister a moment. “You're really going to do this,” she says, “Going to marry and… bed him… while he's…”

Abbie gives her sister a level look that Jenny correctly interprets as This Subject Is Not Up For Discussion.

Jenny holds up her hands. “Fair enough. I don't really want to know anyway.”

“Right,” Abbie nods once, then sighs. “How much longer?”

“The friar's here already. I actually came up here to get you,” Jenny says.

“I still can't believe you found a _blind_ friar,” Abbie says, shaking her head.

“Hey, that was a stroke of genius on Joe's part. Perfect guy for the job,” Jenny replies. “You ready?”

“Yes,” Abbie answers.

 

xXx

 

The friar leaves shortly after the ceremony, but Jenny and Joe stay for dinner. They politely make their exit soon after, Joe hurrying Jenny out the doors before she can make _too_ many suggestive comments.

Crane closes the door behind them and turns to face Abbie. Suddenly, he has no words. They are alone. Married.

On their wedding night.

It's not late. In fact, it's much earlier than when they would normally turn in. On a normal night, they might retire to the library to read or play a game of chess. Abbie might sing for him if he asked.

“Mrs. Crane,” he says, finding his voice and stepping towards her.

She meets him, her hand outstretched. He takes it and slowly kisses her palm, the tip of his tongue slipping out to flick against the sensitive skin there. Her eyes close and her lips part as his kiss sends a wave of heat through her.

“Oh!” she yelps as he sweeps her up into his arms, taking her by surprise.

“Since we married inside the house, I have no threshold over which to carry you,” he says as he strides to the staircase. When he reaches his – their – bedroom door, he pauses. “This will have to suffice,” he declares. Abbie laughs, and he walks into the room.

He kicks the door closed behind them, an unnecessary move being that they are alone in the house, and carries her to his bed, turning and sitting with her on his lap.

“Ichabod,” she gasps, sliding her fingers through his hair and guiding his head to kiss her neck. He willingly complies, moving his mouth to the side of her neck. Kissing without help from her lips isn't as easy, and he finds himself fighting the urge to just _lick_ her. His resolve isn't as strong as he thinks, and his tongue slips out, tracing the tendon on one side. Then he grazes her with his teeth.

She gasps and he automatically apologizes, embarrassed by another manifestation of his beast instincts.

“No… do that again,” she urges, pressing her breasts against his chest.

“Oh,” he grunts, and repeats his actions on the other side of her neck. Then he remembers her reaction when he nipped her lower lip the night he proposed, and relaxes a bit.

“Mmm…” she hums, rocking her hips into his groin.

“Abbie,” he growls her name and moves, flipping them so she is beneath him. He traces the neckline of her bodice, lightly dragging a clawed finger over the exposed tops of her breasts. She arches up under his touch, wanting more.

She runs her hands up his chest, tugging at his shirt. He immediately leans back and yanks it off, possibly tearing it in the process. When he returns to her, she digs her fingertips into his soft fur. It feels delicious and he wants nothing more than to simply tear her dress from her body.

Unfortunately, he doesn't want to ruin her wedding dress. He settles on a compromise, quickly helping her out of the dress, leaving her in a simple shift.

He drops his head and kisses her, a low growl escaping that is felt more than heard.

“Oh, I love it when you growl.” Abbie unthinkingly whispers the admission, lost in sensation.

Ichabod leans back a little, eyebrow raised, and reaches down, his hands lightly caressing her breasts for a moment before he slides one finger between them, inside the neckline of her shift. He curls his finger, piercing the material with his claw.

She realizes what he is doing and her heartbeat speeds up with anticipation, her lips parting. He drags his finger upward, tearing the fabric up to the neckline, and she bites her lower lip.

He bends down and licks the newly exposed skin between her breasts, then lifts up, takes one side of the rent garment in each hand, and pulls, tearing the shift to her waist, fully exposing her breasts.

“Oh,” she gasps. She is warm all over, and feels positively molten between her legs.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, dropping his head to lick at her nipples, already hard from arousal and exposure. Experimentally, he lightly bites one.

“Ohh!” she cries out. He does it again, then licks, soothing the area with his tongue. Then he kisses and licks his way across to the other one and treats it similarly.

His trousers feel uncomfortable and restrictive, and he needs them gone. He swirls his tongue around a nipple, then moves away to quickly undress. It was the only garment he still had on, and when he returns, she can't help looking.

His manhood is large and thick, standing out strangely pale against his brown fur. She wants to touch it. Wants to learn the feel of it, wants to learn how to render him helpless under her touch.

Before she can reach him, he growls low in the back of his throat and finishes ruining her dress, ripping it far enough to ease it off of her body, leaving her bare atop his bed. She looks breathtaking. Mouth-watering.

“You're staring,” she says, stretching her arms up over her head.

“You are magnificent,” he answers. “And you are also staring.”

Smiling, she reaches up with her foot and slides it up his thigh. He grabs it just before she can slide it over his manhood, tutting. He moves closer and kisses the sole of her foot, then runs his tongue from heel to toes.

Ticklish, she squeals and squirms and he gives her a wolfish grin as he advances on her, still holding her foot. He advances on her, dragging the tip of his tongue up her leg until he lightly bites her inner thigh. He drapes her leg over his shoulder and lowers his head, snaking his tongue out to taste her.

“Unnhhhh…” she moans, her hips automatically angling upwards. She whimpers, hands scrabbling on the bedspread while he does things with his tongue that make her feel like she's going a little bit crazy. “Oh… is your tongue… longer than… normal?” she asks, gasping the words out. She hadn't really noticed this while kissing him, but that could be because of his carefully-held control that seems to be nowhere in sight right now.

“Mmm,” he hums against her before lifting his head just long enough to say, “Perhaps.” Then he dives back in, extremely pleased he is pleasing her so well. His only regret is he cannot slide his fingers into her to add to her pleasure. Instead, he reaches up with one hand and covers her breast, careful of his claws on her skin.

“Oh!” she exclaims, on the brink, and he backs off just enough to make it last a bit longer. It is exquisite torture, and she moans long and low, grabbing a fistful of his hair, almost unable to take it any longer.

He increases the pressure again, suddenly, and she wordlessly cries out, pulling his hair as a powerful orgasm crashes over her.

He places a small kiss on the lower part of her stomach, then works his way up, dropping random kisses and licks as he ascends.

“I am not finished with you yet, dear one,” he rumbles.

She brings her hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks, unconsciously petting him as she bring his lips to hers. “You had better not be,” she replies, reaching down and wrapping her fingers around his length.

He makes that low growling sound again, nearly collapsing over her when she strokes him. “No one has touched me… in over three years…” he rumbles, his face in her neck.

“Not even you?” she whispers in his ear, nipping the edge.

“Well…” he admits, burrowing further. “Oh… Abbie… you must stop.”

Understanding, she stops stroking him but guides him into place, opening her legs wider for him.

He slowly slides into her, taking his time, allowing her to get used to his girth.

Impatient, she nips his lower lip as best she can, grabs his backside, and tugs, seating him fully inside her. She groans deliciously.

His eyes widen slightly and his lips curl into a slight but wicked smile. Then he slowly draws back and thrusts forward, delving in hard and deep.

“Oh!” she gasps, her hands on his chest. He keeps moving, setting a steady but strong pace, careful to keep his hands planted on the bed beside her head so as not to hurt her. She pulls her knees up, framing his hips.

He grits his teeth, then bends down and kisses her again. His pace falters a second, and he realizes something feels off. His thrusts slow.

“What's… what's wrong?” she asks, sensing his conflict.

He pulls out of her and kisses her once more. Then he sits back on his heels, studying her for a moment.

“Ichabod?” she asks, growing worried.

He runs his hands over her body from her shoulders to her hips, then grabs her by the waist and flips her over onto her stomach. She yelps in surprise, then again when he lifts her hips, pulling her up onto all fours.

“Forgi—”

“Don't you dare apologize, Crane,” she snaps, pressing her rear against him. She's figured out what he wants – needs – and his aggressive demeanor is only making her more aroused.

He growls again, a sound she now definitely loves, and slides into her from behind, his hands holding her hips. “Oh, yes…” he hisses, fully giving in to the base, animal instincts that he has always fought to keep at bay.

“Oh… mmm… yes…” she gasps, angling herself so he hits just the right spot inside of her. She grabs the pillows and uses them to support herself.

“Abbie,” he croaks out her name, tightening his grip on her hips as he drives into her, resuming the same pace he started earlier.

She feels his claws prick into her skin a bit, but she doesn't care; it simply adds another layer of sensation. Little cries and whimpers are escaping her lips with every thrust, and she knows she's quickly going to climax again.

She cries out, coming for the second time, and he thrusts in deep, slowing his strokes to allow her to ride out her orgasm. He knows he is close, but is painfully aware he cannot release into her, so he grits his teeth, holding on for a few more strokes.

She sighs, and he gently withdraws, carefully fisting himself, pumping into his hand just a few times before he releases with a groan into a handkerchief she's thoughtfully passed him.

They collapse in a heap of brown skin and brown fur, Ichabod still wrapped around Abbie from behind. She feels the warm softness of his fur encasing her from behind, feels the sharp sting left behind where his claws inadvertently scratched her hips. She's never felt so exhausted yet amazingly alive.

He gently bites, then licks the sensitive place where her neck meets her shoulder. “I love you so much, Wife.”

She smiles and snuggles backwards into him. “I love you, too, Husband,” she whispers, lifting a furred hand to her lips and kissing it.

He tightens his hold on her, kisses her shoulder, then promptly falls asleep.

She sighs, closes her eyes, and drifts off into a contented sleep, in her husband's arms.


	11. In Which They Embark on a Journey

“Mr. Van Brunt, I presume?” Abbie greets the man at the door. Ichabod finally consented to let her meet his agent after Abbie put forth a very persuasive argument, stating that she knows more of what their household needs anyway and that if Van Brunt so much as looked at her in a lecherous way she would “put him on his ass”. Then she demonstrated her ability to do so, at Crane's insistence.

Then they wound up making love on the floor where he landed.

Abraham Van Brunt's eyes nearly pop out of his head at seeing a petite, beautiful woman standing in the open doorway instead of the shadowy figure of Crane talking to him through the crack of a barely-opened door.

While he opens and closes his mouth like a catfish struggling to breathe on land, Abbie presses on. “I'm Abigail Crane, Dr. Crane's new wife. My husband and I have agreed that our transactions going forward will be handled by me,” she says. Her tone is brusque, businesslike, and commanding authority.

Van Brunt is confused and a little aroused. He also finally finds his voice. “Enchanté,” he smoothly greets, holding out his hand and stepping inside the foyer.

She takes it, making sure to pointedly turn her hand sideways to prevent him from kissing it.

He puzzles at her a moment, surprised at how strong she is. “Well then… Mrs. Crane…” he trails off, then regroups. “I'm sorry, when did this happen? I mean, I knew he had a… a maid or something here, but… was it you?”

“We were married over a month ago,” she tells him. “And yes, I have been here, but I was never a maid,” she protests, though she knows full well that she pretty much was. “The details of our marriage are not your concern,” she says, squarely meeting his gaze. She looks him over. He is of similar height and build to Ichabod, tall and thin, though she thinks Van Brunt may be a shade beefier. He is handsome enough, blonde, with close-set blue eyes and a chiseled jawline. He would be more attractive if he didn't have an overall air of haughty disdain about him.

All in all, she's not terribly impressed. She holds out the list, tired of these inane pleasantries.

He takes it and looks it over. “This is a lot,” he observes. The list is twice the length it normally is.

“Dr. Crane and I will be setting out on a journey as soon as the weather improves and will be needing some travel supplies,” Abbie explains. “There will be more next time, too.”

Van Brunt wants to complain. He wants to refuse. He wants to tell her she can do the shopping from now on. But he's come to rely on the money he gets from Crane. And he's realized he's a little afraid of Mrs. Crane. He doesn't know what's wrong with his old friend, but obviously he is well enough to take a wife, and what a wife at that. _He's certainly met his match._

“Is there a problem?” she asks, her hands on her hips.

“Um, no… ma'am,” he answers, pocketing the list. “It may take me until tomorrow to acquire all these items for you,” he says. “If that's all right.”

“That's fine,” she answers, now smiling pleasantly. “I won't keep you any longer, Mr. Van Brunt.”

He realizes he is being dismissed, and finds his feet are already carrying him back to the door. “Have a good day, ma'am,” he says. She nods, smiles, and shuts the door.

“I know you're watching, Ichabod,” she calls, and he appears in a doorway, looking properly sheepish.

“You're certain you are not a witch?” he asks, walking towards her.

“Not _entirely_ certain. I mean there have been a few in my family,” she admits with a smile, stepping into into his embrace. “Why do you ask?”

“I have never seen Van Brunt behave that way,” he says. “Polite. Respectful. To man or woman.”

She leans her head back and looks up at him. “Oh, so you think I enchanted him?”

He chuckles. “The thought had occurred,” he admits. “But you were very commanding. Apparently you are a stronger person than he,” he says, laughing some more. Then he kisses her, intending it to be a small kiss, but it quickly changes when he realizes how much he enjoyed watching her put Van Brunt in his place. How much seeing her authoritative side arouses him.

“Ichabod,” she says, reeling from his ardor. “What…?”

“Let's go upstairs,” he murmurs in her ear, “and you can order me around for a while.”

“Oh, so it's like that, is it?” she asks, taking his hand and pulling him towards the stairs.

“Indeed,” he concurs.

 

xXx

 

They set out for Pocantico Hills in late March. There are still some piles of dirty snow lingering in places, but Abbie knows Ichabod is anxious to depart. So they pack some things, bundle up, and head out.

“The journey would be faster if we rode,” Crane says as they walk.

“I've never ridden a horse,” Abbie replies, thinking that perhaps her husband might have thought of this sooner than when they were already afoot.

“Truly?” he asks, looking down at her.

She stops walking and looks up at him. “And when, exactly, would I have had the means for _that_ kind of horse and the time to learn to ride?” she asks, a little testy. The sheriff was a good, well-educated man, but he didn't have a lot of money. Plow horses are one thing. Horses meant to be ridden by people as means of transport are quite another.

“I'm sorry. Forgive me. I did not think.” She imagines he looks quite contrite behind his mask – which she now hates as much as he does.

She nods. “You might have asked about this sooner; you might have had time to teach me.”

“True,” he allows. “I have been so distracted by thoughts of the culmination of this journey that I left all the details of the _actual_ journey to you… not once did transportation occur to me. Until just now.”

“It's understandable, Ichabod,” she says, taking his arm and beginning to walk again. “I know how hard this is on you.”

He sighs and nods. They walk in silence for a bit and he says, “You could ride with me. That might not be bad, astride a fine horse with you in my arms.”

“You got horse-buying money on you?” she asks.

“Oh. No, I do not,” he answers. He has a full purse, but it is filled with money for lodging and food. If he uses it to buy a horse they will have none left for anything else. And he isn't going back to get more.

“Then it's a moot point,” she declares. “I know those boots are uncomfortable, Love. Maybe you can take them off when we get deeper into the forest.”

“Perhaps,” he agrees.

They reach the edge of Pocantico Hills proper just after darkness falls. They stopped only briefly to have a bite of lunch – which Abbie had packed – and once Ichabod realized how close they were, they pushed on a little longer than they both would have liked, the prospect of an inn much more desirable than camping out in the cold.

“It's smaller than I expected,” Abbie comments, looking around.

“This isn't the town center,” Ichabod replies. “Just an outlying village. But it will suffice.” They spot an inn, and head that way. “You remember our plan, my love?”

“Yes,” she nods, taking his offered purse. “Wait here.” She automatically leans up to kiss him, says, “Oh,” frowns at his mask, and heads inside.

Abbie walks through the doors and the din inside decrescendos for a moment as several heads turn to look at the small woman wearing trousers and boots who has just walked in. She ignores everyone and heads straight for the innkeeper behind the bar. The noise level rises again when everyone decides she's not interesting.

“Do you have a room available?” she asks, meeting the innkeeper's gaze.

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Just you? A beautiful woman should not be traveling al—”

“My husband is outside,” she interjects.

“Oh? Why's he not come in then?” he asks. “Not much of a man who lets his wife just saunter into a strange place all on her own, if you ask me.”

“I didn't,” she answers, her voice icy. “Do you have a room or not? I can easily give my money to an innkeeper who knows how to mind his business.”

He blinks once, then says, “I've got one left.” He nods at the staircase along one wall. “Up those stairs, last door on the left,” he adds.

“Nothing on the first floor?”

“All our rooms are upstairs, Missus.” He narrows his eyes at her. “Deters people from thinking they can trash my rooms and then escape out the window.”

Abbie presses her lips together. _We were counting on sneaking him_ in _the window._ “Very well,” she says, fishing into Ichabod's purse and putting some coins on the bar. After a moment's thought, she puts a few more down. “We would like two dinners brought up as well.”

The innkeeper looks down at the money. It's more than enough. He doesn't normally deliver meals up to the rooms, but she's convinced him with her silver. “Of course, Missus.”

She takes out one more coin and presses it in the man's palm. She closes his fingers over it and leans in close, her hands tight around his closed fist. “My husband has a skin condition. He is _not_ contagious, but will be cloaked so as not to make your guests uneasy. I am trusting you to see to it that this will not be an issue,” she says, her voice like steel.

When she releases his hand, he stares down at it, surprised at how much strength there is in her small hands. “Yes, Missus. Of course.”

Abbie nods and strides back out to fetch her husband.

“Abbie!” Ichabod exclaims stepping out of his hiding place. “You weren't supposed to come back out… did they have no rooms?”

“Oh, he has a room, but it's on the second floor,” she answers, tossing him his purse. “Come on.”

“What?”

“Come on. It will be fine,” she says, taking his hand. He resists and she turns towards him, cupping his face. She looks around a moment, then her fingers work his mask up just enough for her to kiss him. “I promise.”

“Very well,” he relents, and she tucks his mask back into place.

They enter the inn, and this time no one pays any heed. Abbie and Ichabod make their way along the wall, endeavoring to be as inconspicuous as possible, heading towards the stairs.

“Hey!” a patron calls, hoisting his mug in their direction. “What's with the mask? Are you some sort of bandit?” They ignore him, so he continues. “Oh, help, help! The skinny masked man and the tiny woman are taking all my gold!” Laughter erupts, and as Abbie and Ichabod reach the stairs, he tries again. “Hey! I asked you a question!”

The innkeeper intervenes, quickly striding over and cuffing the patron on the back of the head with his beefy hand. “Shut it, Hawley, or I'm cutting you off.”

As Hawley turns towards the innkeeper to protest, the Cranes successfully ascend the stairs and slip quietly into their room.

They are soon forgotten by the other patrons, but the innkeeper knocks a short time later with their dinners.

“Thank goodness,” Ichabod says. “I'm starving.”

“Me too,” Abbie replies, waving him over behind a privacy screen in the corner as she walks to the door. “Thank you,” she greets the innkeeper.

“May I?” he asks, his eyes darting around the room, obviously looking for Ichabod.

“Please,” Abbie steps aside, allowing him to bring in his tray and set it on the table. “My husband is behind the screen,” she informs.

“Oh, I wasn't—”

“Yes, you were,” she answers, her voice kind. “Ichabod, darling, say hello to the innkeeper.”

“Good evening, sir,” he calls from behind the screen, feeling incredibly stupid, hiding in what is essentially a makeshift loo. “We thank you for your hospitality. Whatever you've brought for dinner smells delicious.”

“It's a simple beef stew, sir,” the innkeeper answers. “I hope it will be to your liking.” He nods at Abbie, then heads out.

When the door closes again, Crane comes out from behind the screen. “That was humiliating.”

“I told you what I told him, and I _also_ told you to leave your mask on,” Abbie gently chides. “But no, someone had to undress down to just his trousers as soon as both feet were inside the roo—oh!” She squeals when Crane suddenly sweeps her into his arms.

“I can think of a better way to use that smart mouth of yours,” he rumbles, his face inches from hers.

“Me too,” she agrees, her voice a seductive whisper. As he leans in to kiss her, she leans away and says, “I meant eating dinner; of what were you thinking?”

Then she worms her way out of his arms and goes to the table.

“Abbie!” he exclaims, but he is laughing. And also hungry. He eats his entire bowl full, the second half of Abbie's, and most of the bread.

She sets the tray outside the door, then slides the heavy bolt into place, locking everyone else out. When she turns around, he is _right_ there, his eyes dark and feral. She squeaks in surprise when he lifts her, pulling her legs around his waist. She feels the cold stone of the wall against her back, but it barely registers because of the heat radiating from her already-naked husband.

“Ichabod…” she gasps, speaking around kisses, “I have trousers on… you have to let me down…”

He grunts in recognition, sets her on her feet, and kneels before her, intent on disrobing her as quickly as possible. He leaves her shirt on to protect her back from getting scratched on the wall, and when he picks her up again, he shoves the front of her shirt up so he can have access to her breasts.

Abbie clings to his shoulders, holding on as he kisses, licks, and bites a path over her skin. He shifts her, his hands – with their sharp nails now carefully and painstakingly filed down – gripping her hips until they are aligned and he easily slides into her with a low growl.

“Oh…” she breathes, then bites her lip, trying to be mindful of the fact that there are other guests in this inn. He powerfully thrusts into her, bracing her shoulders against the wall, his lips placing sucking kisses on her neck.

“Abbie,” he grunts her name with his thrusts. “Oh, Abbie…”

When she hears that deep, hoarse rasp, she knows he is gone, lost in her, and she pulls his face to hers for a kiss. “I love you,” she whispers into his mouth while they kiss.

“I love y—oh, yes…” he groans, and she knows he is getting close. She's become quite adept at reading him this way over these three months, and when he speaks again, she knows what he is going to say. “Touch yourself, Love.”

She lets go of his neck and snakes her hand down between them, rubbing small circles to help bring herself to her climax because both of his hands are occupied holding her up. “Oh…” she gasps, “Oh yes… harder…”

Ichabod grits his teeth and complies, knowing he is playing with fire but needing to bring her to completion before he has to pull out. Abbie cries out a moment later, her thighs tightening around his hips.

He growls again, quickly but gently removing himself from her and setting her back on the floor. To his shock, she immediately drops to her knees and takes him in her mouth. “Abbie!” he exclaims. “Oh…” He almost collapses at the feel of her mouth around him, and braces his hands on the wall to support himself.

She's never done this before – not to anyone – but she must be doing it right because he's certainly not complaining. She swirls her tongue around the end, then sucks him in as far as she can, wrapping her fingers around the base of his shaft. It feels unexpectedly erotic to pleasure him this way, and she hums contentedly.

“Abbie, my love… I am… ohhh…” he groans, not sure if it is her intention to swallow his seed or not, but that's precisely what she winds up doing a moment later as his knees buckle and he surges forth into her mouth.

She gags a little, but manages it; when he's done, she leans back and slides him out of her mouth. She leans forward again and places a gentle kiss on his softening cock before looking up at him. He's simply staring down at her in awe.

“I always wondered about that,” she admits.

He reaches down and helps her to her feet again. “So you've never…?” he asks, kissing her. There is a strange taste to her now, but he doesn't care.

“No,” she answers, walking over and pouring herself a glass of water. “Has anyone ever done that to you before?” she hesitantly asks into her cup.

“No,” he replies. “My experience is limited to a few tumbles in the barn with girls from the village, to be quite honest.”

She chuckles and says, “Too bad we didn't grow up in the same village.”

He smiles, but then his expression grows serious again. “Too bad indeed. This entire mess could have been avoided then, for you would have stolen my heart – that is, I would have freely and joyfully given it to you – before Miss Van Tassel could have set her sights on it.”

“Possibly,” Abbie says. “She still might have done it out of jealousy.”

Ichabod pulls her into his arms. “True,” he allows. “Or worse, she could have loosed her wrath on you.” He bends down and kisses her. “Come,” he says, “let's see if this bed is comfortable.”

He takes her hand and pulls her to the bed just as a knock sounds at the door.

She squeezes his hand before releasing it and goes to the door. “Yes?” she calls through the wood.

“Is everything to your liking, Missus?” the innkeeper asks. “Do you require anything else tonight?”

“Everything is fine, thanks. We don't need anything,” she answers.

“Shall I send up some breakfast in the morning then?”

She looks at Ichabod who is giving her a look that clearly asks _How much money did you give him?_ “Yes, that would be lovely. We will be setting out quite early though.”

“I'll have it brought up just before first light,” he answers.

“Thank you very much,” she replies. “Good night,” she adds, just to make sure he knows their conversation is over.

“Good night,” he says, and Abbie walks back to bed, where Ichabod is waiting.

“I didn't give him that much,” she tells him and kisses him. “Count what's left yourself if you don't believe me.”

“I trust you,” he answers. “I saw how you handled Van Brunt; I have no doubt you could have this innkeeper eating out of your tiny hand,” here he picks up her hand and presses a slow, wet kiss to her palm, “just as easily.”

 

xXx

 

The next morning they set out, skirting around the edge of town before most people are up and about. Ichabod doesn't relax until they are in the forest, hiking up the hill.

“I have to say your memory is really helpful for something like this,” Abbie comments, completely trusting him to lead them to the correct destination.

As they walk, she remembers waking up the morning after their wedding, Jenny's query about whether or not the previous night's activities would break the curse in the front of her mind. But she knew it did not before she even opened her eyes from the furry arm and pointed claws under her hand. She sighed, kissed his hand, and rolled over to find him staring at her. The first words out of his mouth were, “That did not work either.” She knew then he had also considered that option.

Ichabod takes her hand, and she can feel the tension radiating through him. She knows this is much harder on him than it is on her, and she tries to be mindful of that. Just because _she_ doesn't care if he is a beast or a man doesn't me _he_ does not care. All he wants is to live his life as he did before, able to move openly in society, able to actually leave his house uncloaked, able to give her the child that they both very much want but cannot yet have.

She knows he is happy with her, and a part of her wishes it was enough. But putting herself in his place, she understands how she is unable to ease his pain all on her own.

She knows he will be unable to truly, fully be himself until he is restored to his former body.

And deep down, a tiny part of her hopes he will still want her if and when that happens. _And that's a small part of why you don't care if he changes back. You know he won't leave you if he stays a beast._

“Abbie?” Ichabod asks, looking back at her with a concerned expression. “Do you need to rest?” he asks. “I knew I shouldn't have kept you awake so late,” he adds, chiding himself for his seemingly unquenchable lust for his wife.

“No, I'm fine,” Abbie answers. She notices she's dropped several steps behind him, her hand no longer in his.

He walks back to her and guides her to sit on a large boulder nearby. “You do not look fine. Something is troubling you.”

She sometimes forgets he can read her as well as she can him. “I just had a realization, that's all,” she says after a minute. “About myself.”

“What is that?” he tenderly asks, tracing her cheek with his finger.

She bites her lip, then quietly asks, “What if you don't want me after you've changed back?”

He looks at her under furrowed brows. “That is preposterous,” he replies. “Why on earth would I not want you?”

“Because you'll be back to your human self, which, from what I've seen, is quite handsome. I can see why Katrina fancied you. I bet you were admired by several of the single ladies in town, in fact. And I… I just realized that a small part of the reason it doesn't matter to me if you are a man or… a beast is because if you're a beast, you won't leave me.” She looks up at him. “People I love have a tendency to leave me.”

Any personal hurt he may have felt over her doubts immediately disappears with her last sentence. He kneels in front of her and takes her hands. “Grace Abigail Crane,” he declares, kissing her knuckles. “I promised, in front of a man of God, your sister, and Mister Corbin, that I would honor and cherish you for the rest of my days. That I would love you regardless of the circumstances around us. I made a vow to you that day, a vow I did not take lightly then and do not now. If I were to ever leave you, I promise it will not be through my choosing.”

She leans forward and hugs him tightly. “I'm sorry, Ichabod,” she whispers, her tears wetting his neck. “I didn't intend to question your feelings for me… I just…”

“I understand, Love. I do,” he replies, leaning back to kiss her. “You take on the burden of my troubles so much that your own problems often get pushed to the side, and for that, I am sorry.” He kisses her again. “Just know that I will love you no matter how… fuzzy… I am.”

She snorts an indelicate giggle and he smiles.

“And do you honestly think I would turn you away while Miss Jenny walks this earth? My nose has not forgotten the sting of her fist, you know,” he adds.

Now Abbie laughs, and he gives her one more kiss. “Thank you,” she says, and stands, pulling him to his feet. She gives him a tight hug, burying her face in his chest for a minute before stepping back. “Come on. Let's go find those witches.”

“Quite,” he agrees. “We are actually not far.”

They walk for ten more minutes, then come to an abrupt halt in front of what appears to be a pile of charred rubble.

“Oh dear,” Abbie says, breaking the silence. “Ichabod…”

“Burnt,” he croaks. “They're… they're…”

“Gone,” she finishes. She turns to Crane. “What do we do now?” she asks, but as soon as she sees him, she can tell he is in no state to construct a Plan B just yet. “Come sit,” she says, pulling him to a large fallen log. She takes a skin filled with water out of his bag and urges him to drink. He passes it back to her, indicating she should also have some.

“Why?” he asks after a time, wiping his eyes. “How? _Why?_ They weren't hurting anyone.”

“People are ignorant,” she hollowly answers. “Cruel. They condemn what they don't understand.”

“That's what my mama said.” A small voice behind them makes them jump, and they turn to see a young girl of about nine standing and staring at them from the edge of the clearing. Crane begins to panic, as he is unmasked, but Abbie places a steadying hand on his arm. “What's wrong with you?” the girl asks.

“He is under a curse,” Abbie answers. “He won't hurt you.”

“I know,” the girl replies. “He's not hurting _you_. And he looks like my doggie. My doggie is nice.”

Abbie squeezes Ichabod's hand, hoping he takes the innocent comment for what it is.

“I am just a man under all this,” he answers, collecting himself. “What is your name, child?”

“Macey,” she answers. “What's yours?”

“I am Ichabod, and this is my wife, Abbie,” he answers.

Macey tilts her head, almost as if the two of them being married is stranger than Ichabod's appearance, then says, “You're pretty.”

Abbie smiles. “Thank you. So are you.” Macey beams and Abbie asks, “What happened here?”

“Some of the villagers burned the witch ladies last year. I liked them. They let me ask them all kinds of questions,” Macey answers, frowning.

“I am certain they did,” he replies. “You must be full of questions.”

“My papa says too many questions,” she says, nodding.

“No such thing, Miss Macey,” he says.

“Do you live near here?” Abbie asks. “In the forest?”

“Yes. My papa has sheep… there's a clearing over here where they're grazing this spring.” She points behind her and to the right. “We live where the sheep need to be.”

“Fascinating,” Ichabod answers.

“You wanted the witches to help you with your curse,” Macey states. She doesn't need to ask.

“Yes. You are a smart girl.”

“My mama says too smart,” she replies.

“Once again, no such thing,” Ichabod repeats.

Macey stares at them for a long moment. “There's a man,” she suddenly says.

“Oh?” Abbie asks, wondering where this strange child's train of thought is going now.

Macey nods. “He helped my brother. There was a demon inside him. It made him sick and naughty and burned him. The man got the demon out.”

Crane's eyebrows shoot up. “Truly?” he asks.

“You don't believe me.”

“No, no, I do… _we_ do, but… we would like more information,” he presses.

“If possible,” Abbie adds. “Do you know where we can find this man?”

“My papa knows,” Macey answers. “He can tell you.”

Abbie and Ichabod look at each other. _Why not?_ seems to be the unspoken agreement between them.

“Are you certain?” Ichabod asks.

She hesitates. “Not really, but come ask. The witch ladies always told me that you can't find out anything if you don't ask,” she says.

“Well then,” Abbie replies, standing.

Ichabod stands as well. “Perhaps I should mask myself…”

“It's all right,” Macey says. “I'll tell them you won't hurt them.”

Abbie bites back her grin and says, “Lead the way, Miss Macey.”

 

xXx

 

Macey's family's hut is not far from the remains of the witches' home, and they are greeted by the girl's mother. And Macey's little dog, which does in fact bear a passing resemblance to Ichabod.

“Macey! Where did you wander off to this time? Oh! H-hello…”

“Don't worry, Mama, he's nice,” Macey says. “I found them by the witch ladies' house. They wanted their help, but the witch ladies are dead and Mr. Ichabod doesn't want to look like a doggy anymore so I told them about the man who helped Elijah.”

“Macey…” her mother sighs, but gives Abbie and Ichabod a sympathetic look.

“We do not mean to intrude, but your daughter happened upon us shortly after we discovered the remains of the house, and, well, she's rather persuasive,” Abbie says. “My name is Abigail Crane, and this is my husband, Dr. Ichabod Crane.”

“Yes, I'm well aware of my daughter's gift for persuasion,” Macey's mother says, stepping forward and wiping her hands on her apron. “Please to meet you and welcome to our humble home. I'm Cynthia Irving. My husband and son are tending the sheep, but they will be returning soon for lunch. Will you join us?”

“If it isn't an imposition, Madam Irving,” Ichabod answers. “Miss Macey tells us that your good husband will be able to point us in the direction of this man of which she speaks.”

“Yes,” Cynthia answers. “He is called a Sin Eater.”

“But my husband did nothing wrong… his curse was unjustly placed on him,” Abbie says.

“It is simply what he is called, Mrs. Crane,” Cynthia explains. “My Elijah did nothing to call the demon into him either. But truly, who of us is totally free from sin?”

“Excellent point, Madam,” Ichabod allows. “Miss Macey said this man was able to help free your son from this demon?”

“Yes. But Frank will be able to tell you more about that. I… I can't,” she says, looking away, obviously still too emotional about the ordeal.

“Of course,” he softly replies.

 

xXx

 

When Frank and Elijah return, Abbie and Cynthia are chatting over the food, sharing recipes and cooking tips like old friends while Ichabod and Macey play fetch with her dog, Betsy.

“Frank,” Cynthia hurries over to him, “we have guests.”

“So I see,” Frank says. “Macey, I assume this has something to do with you?”

“Yes, Papa,” Macey answers. She takes Ichabod's hand and leads him to her father. “Mr. Doctor Ichabod is cursed and needs the man that helped Elijah.”

“So I see,” Frank repeats with a nods. “Doctor…?”

“Dr. Ichabod Crane, sir,” Ichabod says, extending his free right hand. It doesn't even occur to him that Frank might not want to shake his hand until the other man warmly grasps it. “My wife, Abigail,” he introduces, nodding over his shoulder at Abbie.

“How do you do?” she asks, respectfully nodding. “We apologize for the unexpected intrusion.”

“Nonsense,” Frank says, kindly dismissing her worries. “This is Elijah,” he introduces his son, who appears to be around 12 and is half-hiding behind his father. “Come out and let them see you,” he urges.

The boy steps out to reveal a sweet face that looks very much like a younger version of his father's, only with a large burn scar extending from his right cheekbone down to his neck, disappearing into his shirt. It is mostly healed, but not completely. “Hello,” he quietly says.

“I am pleased to meet you, Elijah,” Ichabod greets.

Elijah shyly smiles and gives Ichabod a small nod.

Cynthia places her hand on her son's shoulder and says, “Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Frank says. “Come on. We'll talk and eat.”

“Miss Abbie was helping Mama cook,” Macey says. “She used to be a _real_ cook in a _real_ inn.”

“Is that so?” Frank asks. “Macey loves the idea of inns. Or any house that you can't pick up and move,” he chuckles. “So, Dr. Crane… what kind of doctor are you?”

“Not a medical doctor, if that is what you are wondering,” he answers. “My doctoral degree is in the field of botany.”

“He does science things,” Macey explains. “With plants, right?”

“Yes, Miss Macey, that is correct,” he agrees.

“Hmm,” Frank replies, taking his plate from his wife, and it occurs to Abbie that perhaps he was hoping that Ichabod would have some advice for Elijah's scars.

“You would be surprised at how many plants have medicinal uses though,” she tactfully ventures, looking directly at Frank.

His eyebrows shoot up. “I have heard that,” he replies, his eyes tellingly darting in the direction of his son.

“Yes,” Abbie answers. “Ichabod, what were you telling me about that desert plant last week? You know, the one I almost knocked over?”

Ichabod nods, catching on. “Yes, the aloe. Remarkable healing properties. For… external use,” he tactfully says.

“Very interesting,” Frank replies.

“Just say you're looking for something to help my scars, Papa,” Elijah mutters, exasperated. “I'm not a child and I know what you're talking about.”

Frank looks at Elijah, then Cynthia, who nods. “Do you think it could help?”

“I cannot say for certain, but it would not hurt at all,” Ichabod answers. “What do you say to a trade? If you can direct us to the location of this Sin Eater, I will bring you some aloe extract for Master Elijah. And perhaps a little something for Miss Macey as well,” he adds, winking at his new little friend.


	12. In Which Ichabod's Sins are Eaten

The Sin Eater lives several miles to the north, in a cabin on the shores of Pocantico Lake. Frank had warned them that he was an “unfriendly hermit who doesn't really like people” and that it was a definite possibility that he would not help them.

It was Cynthia who convinced the eccentric man to help their son, and he only did so after she showed him the fine wool she made from their sheep's fleece and offered to make him anything he liked from it. In the past three months, she's made two blankets and a scarf for him, and is currently working on a sweater.

Abbie and Ichabod spent another night in an inn. Exhausted and in no mood to deal with any other Hawleys, Abbie told the innkeeper that Ichabod was cloaked to disguise himself from some bandits he had beaten up who are now looking for him. She said it loud enough for several patrons to hear, and when they walked through the tavern to their room, no one said a word.

That night, they immediately fell into an exhausted but fitful sleep, their upcoming meeting with the Sin Eater heavy on their minds. Wondering if he will help them. Wondering what the price will be if he does.

Wondering if he _can_ help them.

 

xXx

 

They left just before dawn once again, wishing to waste no time. They munched on bits of leftover food from the previous night's dinner as well as some dried fruit they brought along for breakfast and lunch. They only stopped a one other time to heed the call of nature, and reached the cabin by mid-afternoon.

The forest is beautiful and still here, the lake glistening in the background. It's just late March, so not much is growing yet, but Abbie imagines it must be a gorgeous, lush green in late spring and summer.

She squeezes Ichabod's hand. “Come on,” she says, leading the way to the door.

He hesitates again outside the door, so Abbie knocks.

There is no answer. She knocks again.

“Perhaps he's out,” Ichabod says.

“Frank said he was a hermit,” Abbie answers. She peers into a nearby window, and Ichabod quickly and gently pulls her back.

“Don't!” he frantically whispers. “We don't want to give him any reason to—”

Abbie knocks again, louder this time. “Mr. Parrish,” she calls. “Please, my husband and I have traveled far to seek your help.” Ichabod goggles at her, and she whispers, “I saw him in there. He's home, he's just ignoring us.”

“Well, bullying him isn't going to—”

“Go away,” a gruff voice says on the other side of the door. “I am indisposed.”

“You are doing a jigsaw puzzle,” Abbie retorts.

“As I said,” he snaps from the other side.

“Mr. Parrish, my name is Dr. Ichabod Crane,” Ichabod finally finds his courage and his voice. “You have been recommended by the Irving family as someone who can help me. I have been living under a curse placed on me three years ago by Katrina Van Tassel, and—”

The door opens, causing Abbie and Ichabod to jump back in surprise.

Henry Parrish appears to be in his late 60s. He likely had a rugged handsomeness in his youth, but his unfriendly demeanor has etched permanent frown lines in his weathered face. He stares hard at Abbie for longer than she would have thought necessary, then gives Ichabod a rather quick once-over. “Hng,” he grunts. “You are a pair.” Then he steps back. “Are you coming in or do you plan to stand there gaping on my front porch all day?” he barks.

“Yes, of course. Thank you very much,” Abbie says.

“Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Parrish,” Ichabod echoes.

Henry sits, then brusquely waves at two chairs at the other side of the table, indicating that they should follow suit. “In what way will I benefit from helping you?”

“We can pay you,” Abbie says, glancing at Ichabod, who nods.

“I have no need of paltry coin,” Henry sniffs.

Ichabod looks around the man's small dwelling and notes many unique specimens of plants. “Would you be interested in rare cuttings and seeds?” he asks. “As a botanist, I have quite a collection in my home, and…” he digs into a bag, “a few samples with me that I am more than willing to offer in exchange for your help.” He withdraws some envelopes and begins carding through them. “Hibiscus… bougainvillea… I can also offer you…” he looks around again, trying to determine what might take his fancy. Something he doesn't have. “Bromeliads. I have several,” he concludes.

The old man's eyebrows lift just slightly. “Aechmea?”

“And canistropsis.” After a beat, Ichabod adds, “I also have a fine collection of succulents, including many colorful and unique varieties of echeveria.”

“I'll make you a list,” Henry says. Then he looks back and forth between Abbie and Ichabod before asking, “What is it you wish? To be made a man once again, or for her to become like you?”

Abbie stifles an unexpected, anxious laugh. She hadn't even thought of that possibility. She looks over at her husband and sees his expression is mirroring hers.

“It's an intriguing thought, but for practicality's sake, I think it would probably be best for me to become a man once again, if you please,” Ichabod answers.

“If I please?” Henry repeats. “I really don't care one way or the other, but I've agreed to help you, so I shall.” He stands, walks to a closet, opens it, and withdraws a box.

It hadn't escaped Ichabod's attention that his mentioning Katrina's name seemed to be what opened the door, and his curiosity gets the better of him. “Did you know Miss Van Tassel?” he asks.

“She was my niece,” he grunts.

“Oh!” Abbie exclaims, blinking in surprise.

“I come from a long line of very powerful witches and warlocks. Witchcraft has been in our bloodline for centuries, and Katrina Van Tassel was an embarrassment to our family,” Henry continues, returning to the table. He spreads a large black cloth over the table, covering the puzzle he was putting together. “She was a remarkably incompetent witch,” he grumbles, sitting. He begins fussing about in the box, pulling out various pots and tools. “I am amazed she lived as long as she did.”

Abbie glances at Ichabod to see him gaping in surprise at the older man's words. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, then regroups and asks, “You are?”

Henry turns around. “Do you not know the meaning of the word 'incompetent', Dr. Crane?” he snaps. “Honestly, why do you think she had to make her living by brewing abortives and reading tea leaves for gullible village girls?” He sets his supplies on the table, then adds, “Tea leaves. _Pah._ An inexact and amateurish form of chicanery of the highest order.”

“You don't believe in tea leaves?” Abbie asks, trying to hide her mild amusement. Mr. Parrish is bizarre, unpleasant, and prickly, but she finds she likes him a little. _I must have a soft spot for cantankerous types,_ she realizes, thinking of both Sheriff Corbin and her husband. She reaches over and takes Ichabod's hand. He gently squeezes it.

Henry fixes her in his gaze, peering at her through his glasses. “Do you believe that there is also a message waiting for you in the bottom of your morning porridge, Mrs. Crane? Or perhaps it is the chamber pot that holds the key to unlocking the mysteries of the universe.”

A slow smile crosses her face and she can no longer hold back her laughter. “Point taken, Mr. Parrish,” she says.

He nods once, then turns his attention back to Ichabod. “Now. Tell me.”

 

xXx

 

By the time Ichabod finishes telling his story, Henry is shaking his head in disbelief.

“While I am impressed that she actually succeeded in turning you into a beast, I am not surprised that she bungled the spell,” he says. “I know precisely where she went wrong, too,” he adds, muttering almost to himself. “Now. While I agree that you did nothing to deserve the punishment she visited on you, it did do you some good, yes?”

Ichabod nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Tell me,” he commands again, folding his hands in front of him on the table.

Ichabod swallows, nerves starting to take hold. He glances at Abbie, still holding his hand, and she gives him an encouraging nod.

“I was selfish. Arrogant. I… I still have a tendency towards arrogance, if I am being honest,” he pauses. “I thought I didn’t need anyone else in my life… I did not _want_ anyone else.”

“And now?”

He glances at Abbie. “My Abigail’s sister broke into my garden. I was a brute to her… I overreacted… turned my anger with myself outward… then Abbie appeared and showed me what kindness and selflessness looks like,” he admits. “I was… immediately smitten. I quickly learned that I had been wrong.” He looks over at Abbie, then back at Henry. “Of course I wasn’t very kind to her at first either, but… she showed me the error of my ways. She changed me.”

“No,” Henry says, shaking his head and frowning.

“No?” Ichabod asks, confused.

“Abigail did not change you. No one can change another person; it is simply not possible. You changed yourself. You finally opened your eyes and your heart, saw the error of your ways, and—”

“And endeavored to become a man worthy of her. A man worthy of her friendship. Her love,” Ichabod finishes.

“Good,” Henry curtly replies. He unfolds his hands and holds his left one out, palm-up, on the table.

Ichabod glances at Abbie, then places his hand in Henry’s. Quick as a flash, Henry stabs Ichabod’s palm with a stone dagger. Ichabod hisses in surprised pain.

Abbie watches in mild horror as Henry lifts his finger to his lips, licks a drop of Ichabod's blood from it, and momentarily closes his eyes in what looks like euphoria.

Henry regroups and releases Ichabod’s hand, leaving it resting on the table, blood welling in his palm. He holds his hand out to Abbie next.

“Me?” she asks, releasing her husband’s hand to give to Henry.

“Just a drop, my dear,” Henry says, his tone just a shade kinder. Instead of stabbing her palm, he takes a needle and just pokes the tip of her little finger. He gently squeezes until a single red pearl blooms on the end, then moves her hand so it is hovering over Ichabod's. He gives one more squeeze, turning her hand, and the drop lands in the small pool of blood in Ichabod's hand.

Henry looks squarely at Ichabod. “There is blackness in you. Katrina put it there, quite unintentionally, of course, and it clings. As long as you carry this sin of hers in your soul, it will keep you bound to this form. However, it does not want to go.”

“Please… help me release it,” Ichabod replies in a fervent whisper.

“That is what the drop of Abigail's blood will help accomplish. Her light will banish the darkness,” Henry replies. “Take her hand again.” Ichabod does so, and Abbie wraps both of her small hands around his. “Now repeat after me. I purge the wicked from my blood.”

“I purge the wicked from my blood,” Ichabod repeats.

“Our spirits severed; my soul sanctified.”

“Our spirits severed; my soul sanctified.”

“Curse, leave me now, I command you.”

“Curse, leave me now, I command you!” Ichabod passionately repeats this last, his hand trembling in Abbie's.

Henry tips Ichabod's pierced hand, and only some of the rapidly-congealing blood breaks loose, suddenly flowing freely and pooling on the black cloth without soaking into it. Henry reaches over to a basket on the table and tears off a hunk of bread from a loaf there. He dips it into the blood, then pops it into his mouth.

He chews and swallows.

Ichabod collapses to the floor.

“Ichabod!” Abbie exclaims, dropping to her knees next to him.

“He is sanctified,” Henry says, standing to look down over the table at them.

Abbie looks up at the strange old man. “I know. Thank you.”

 

xXx

 

Henry and Abbie move Ichabod's body to a small, creaky sofa to wait. Abbie knows this is right; she knows that Ichabod blacked out when he became a beast, but she doesn't know for how long he was out.

Henry makes tea, and brings her some. Then he returns to the table, packs up his box, removes the black cloth, and resumes working on his puzzle.

“Just stay with me,” Abbie whispers, sitting on the floor beside the couch, holding his hand. “That's all I ask. I don't care if you're a beast or a man, just don't leave me. Remember, you promised.”

She waits for what seems like hours, until her rear feels numb and flat from the hard floor of the cabin. Henry mostly ignores them, quietly working his puzzle. Abbie isn't sure if he's intentionally staying out of the way to give them a sense of privacy or if he truly doesn't care, but decides it doesn't really matter.

Tired, she rests her head on the edge of the sofa for a second, idly stroking the back of his hand. She leans up, kisses his forehead and whispers, “I love you.” Then she sits back down again, once more resting her head on the sofa cushion.

Her eyes drift close but her thumb still rhythmically rubs his hand.

_Something feels different._ She opens her eyes and looks at their joined hands. It looks like the fur is…

She releases his hand and wipes the back of it with hers. The fur falls off in clumps. A relieved sob escapes her, and she reaches up to his face. The fur is already disappearing, and his ears are slowly moving back down to their proper position as well as returning to their correct shape. His nose elongates back into a human form. His claws lighten and thin into fingernails. She reaches into his shirt and feels his heart beating beneath his skin –  _skin!_

“Ichabod,” she gasps, standing and stepping back, just watching now as the last of the fur falls away. Thankfully, it disappears as it falls, leaving no mess behind.

“He's quite a handsome man.” Henry's voice behind her makes her jump. “Have you seen him in his human form before?”

“Only in a torn painting,” Abbie answers. She looks at Henry. “I actually didn't think he was that bad to look at as a beast,” she admits.

“Well, that is because you love him,” he simply answers. “Love is not blind, but it does affect how we see people.”

“Have you ever been in love, Mr. Parrish?” she asks, looking at him, trying to imagine such a thing.

His surly face softens for a moment. “I have the ability to recognize love in others, but have no capacity to give love,” he answers. “It is the price I pay for my… gifts.”

She gives him a sad smile. “Is it worth it?”

Henry looks from Abbie to Ichabod and back. “Sometimes.”

“Abbie…” Ichabod's voice is weak and hoarse, but definitely his.

Abbie wheels around, rushing to her husband's side. “Don't get up,” she says, perching beside him, gently pushing him back onto the cushions. “You're back,” she sighs.

“My teeth are blunt,” he comments, and she laughs, watching his face twist as he explores the inside of his mouth with his tongue. He lifts his hands and stares at them like they are long lost friends. He reaches up to his face, then stops, changing his mind and instead cups Abbie's face with his large hands. “Oh,” he sighs, his voice wobbling. His hands explore further, touching her hair, her neck, then her hands. “This is so much better… my hands as a beast were so thick and rough… no refinement, no gentility.” He takes her hand and kisses her palm, groaning as he does so. “At last I can love you the way you deserve,” he murmurs into her hand, kissing it again.

“I've had no complaints,” she says, laughing and crying at the same time. She reaches down and touches his face, watching as his eyes close in bliss. “You still have a beard,” she observes, lightly raking her fingertips through it.

“I had it before,” he replies. “You saw it in the portrait. Though now, perhaps I might shave, just because I  _can_ .”

“Don't you dare,” she immediately says, leaning down. “It suits you, and I like it,” she adds, then kisses him. “Oh, God, you have lips,” she says, then immediately kisses him again.

“They're still not much, but they'll do,” he replies, his voice slightly muffled as they haven't stopped kissing. He begins to pull Abbie down over him, but Henry pointedly clears his throat, reminding them they aren't alone.

“Oh,” Abbie giggles, wiping her face and moving away.

“Tea,” Henry says, bringing a cup for Ichabod. “It will help. Then you can leave.”

“Thank you, Mr. Parrish,” Ichabod says, taking the cup. “For everything.” He sips his tea, which has been prepared exactly to his liking. “I shall not forget our bargain.”

“I know you will not,” Henry replies.

 

xXx

 

Abbie and Ichabod leave Henry's after dark and find an inn for the night, reveling in not having to concoct a story to explain Ichabod's appearance. They even dine in the tavern with the other guests instead of in their room.

However, they eat quickly, having other things on their minds.

Their coupling is fast, frantic, messy, and mostly clothed. Much to her delight, Abbie learns that while her man is no longer a beast, at least one part of his personality has remained very beast-like.

Some time after, Ichabod strips and goes to the mirror, where he stands and stares at his naked body, studying his now-unfamiliar human form. He gathers his hair, which hangs just past his shoulders, and pulls it back, trying to decide if he should cut it or leave it long.

Abbie sits on the bed and stares, too, simply taking him in.

He turns around. “What do you think?” he asks.

“About your hair or in general?”

He chuckles. “In general. I find I am suddenly a bit insecure.”

“Says the man standing unconcernedly buck naked,” Abbie laughs. “You look good. Real good,” she adds, pointedly looking him up and down.

“Thank you,” he exhales. “It's been such a long time.”

A playful smirk crosses her face. “Well, it _will_ take some getting used to,” she says, hungrily watching him as he slowly stalks towards her. “But…”

“But?” he prompts, dropping back onto the bed. He kisses her, deeply, longingly, passionately, relishing the ability to _properly_ do so now.

“I admit I was happy to discover that the beast isn't _completely_ gone ,” she whispers, leaning her head back as he begins kissing down her neck.

He lifts his head and raises an elegantly arched eyebrow at her. It's extremely sexy. “Were you afraid I was going to turn meek and limp in our marriage bed?”

She forgets how to breathe for a moment. “The thought had crossed my mind,” she answers.

He wickedly chuckles, then leans down to bite her neck. She gasps and he quickly removes her clothes, then shoves the bedcovers back so he can climb over her again. He kisses lower, moving to her breasts, which he licks and sucks at until she makes small whimpering noises. When he makes his way back up, she pushes on his chest.

“What? Oh…” he lightly exclaims, momentarily confused until he realizes she wants him to lie on his back. He happily complies, watching her with greedy eyes as she straddles him.

“I have all this new skin to explore,” she says, running her hands down his chest.

He groans, his eyes closing as if her touch overwhelms him. When she leans forward and sucks on the side of his neck he nearly sobs in ecstasy. After three years of being covered in thick fur, his skin is extremely sensitive and every touch from his wife is like the most exquisite torture.

Abbie kisses down and lightly bites his nipple. Ichabod cries out, nearly flying off of the bed. When she swirls her tongue around it, he groans again.

“The other guests are going to hear,” she says, running her fingers through his very reasonable amount of chest hair.

“I don't care,” he says, breathing heavily. “We are married… oh…” he pauses, grunting when she kisses his stomach, “and I cannot help it… your every touch floods my senses.”

“Should I stop?” she asks, drawing a circle with her finger around his navel as she wickedly grins up at him.

“Good God, no,” he answers.

She laughs, kisses him just below his bellybutton, and moves lower. When she takes him in her mouth, he shouts.

 _This part of him hasn't changed_ , Abbie notes, licking his length before sucking him in as far as she can. When she reaches to cup him below, he decides he can't take any more.

“Abbie,” he growls through clenched teeth, “Oh God, stop…”

She immediately releases him, places one more small kiss on his shaft, then moves back up over him. “Too much?” she asks, stroking his face.

“Yes,” he replies, his eyes hungrily roving her form.

She knows that look; it is the same look whether he is man or beast. She shifts her hips lower, sliding herself on his manhood. “Mmm…” she moans, her head dropping back.

“Abbie, my treasure… why do you torment me so?” he asks, his hands coming up to cover her breasts.

“Because,” she answers, lifting up and positioning herself over him, “I can.” She slowly sinks down, her small hands braced on his ribs.

He groans, his fingers flexing into her breasts, and she begins moving. He watches her, his hands roving, and marvels at how lucky he is. How his life took an unexpected turn that led to yet another unexpected turn that led him here.

“I love you so much, Abbie,” Ichabod breathes, pulling her down so he can kiss her.

“I love you, too, Ichabod,” Abbie answers, sealing her lips over his in a deep, slow kiss.

They gradually start moving faster as sensations quickly build, and it's not long before Ichabod is gripping her hips, reminding himself (for the second time that night) that he doesn't have to pull out.

“Oh… oh!” Abbie cries, dropping her forehead against Ichabod's just as he tenses up and floods into her with a growl.

She nuzzles his nose, then kisses him before relaxing on top of his chest, tucking her face into his neck. “You're still warm,” she observes.

“So it seems,” he agrees, wrapping his arms around her. She yawns and he gently rubs her back before smoothing her hair away from her face. “You're tired,” he says, kissing her forehead. “Sleep. We can leave at our leisure tomorrow for a change.”

“You must be tired, too,” she answers. “You've had a harder day than I have.”

“I'm exhausted.”

She slides off of him and he spoons behind her after pulling the covers over them.

“Ichabod?” she asks after a minute.

“Yes, Love?”

“How much money do we have left with us?”

“A fair amount, since we did not have to pay Mr. Parrish for his services. And the inns we've chosen have cost less than we expected,” he answers.

“Do we have horse-buying money?” she asks.

He laughs. “We probably have enough to buy one.”

“Well, if I'm riding with you, that's not a problem,” she replies.

“Indeed not, Treasure,” he agrees. “And it would be beneficial for us to have one, if I am returning to bring aloe to the Irvings.”

“And plants to Mr. Parrish,” she adds, snuggling deeper into the blankets. “And then you can teach me how to ride.”

“I think you'll be an apt pupil, based on your performance just now,” he rumbles, nosing through her hair to kiss the back of her neck.

“What? Oh!” she exclaims, descending into giggles as understanding dawns.

“You were divine, my love. Now go to sleep,” he says, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

She nods, and they are both asleep in minutes.


	13. In Which There is an Epilogue

Ichabod and Abbie have been home for just over three months. They stopped in at the Horseman Inn on their way home to see Jenny and Joe and show them their journey was successful. They very nearly had to pick Jenny's jaw up off of the floor when she saw Ichabod restored to himself.

Abbie noticed quite a few admiring glances from some of the female patrons (and from women wherever they went, in fact), but felt quite secure when she noticed that while _she_ spotted the attention her husband was getting, he did not.

Jenny and Joe had some news of their own to share as well: they were getting married. Ichabod immediately offered the use of Crane Manor for the wedding, and Joe and Jenny gratefully and happily accepted.

When Abbie started feeling nauseous several weeks after returning home, she at first thought she had a stomach bug. When she realized her monthly had also failed to show up, she and Ichabod sought out a midwife in Sleepy Hollow who confirmed their suspicions.

Now, in late July, the garden is decorated, some chairs have been set out for their few guests, and the same friar who married Abbie and Ichabod is waiting to join Joe and Jenny in wedlock.

“Stop fussing; you look beautiful,” Abbie says, pulling Jenny's hand away from her hair for what feels like the hundredth time. “Besides, Joe's going to be looking at you with such heart eyes that you could walk out there wearing a flour sack and he would still think you were the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Jenny rolls her eyes. “I think you may be exaggerating a little.”

“Fine. How about this? He's already seen you at your worst, so you have nothing to worry about,” Abbie retorts, grinning. “Remember that summer when you were 13 and you fell into the—”

Jenny hold up her hand. “All right, you can stop there. And you're lucky I'm wearing white and you're pregnant, because otherwise we'd have to throw down.”

“Right,” Abbie says, slowly nodding as a knock sounds at the door. She walks over and opens it just a crack.

“Is Miss Jenny almost ready?” Ichabod asks, gazing down at her.

“Yes,” she answers. “Just finishing up. We still have ten minutes, you know.”

“I am well aware, but young Mr. Corbin is nearly walking out of his own skin,” he informs. “I fear he is going to wear a path in our garden.”

“We'll be down very soon,” she says, lifting up on tiptoe to kiss her husband.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his large hands framing her face.

“I'm all right,” she answers. “I've got some crackers in my pocket,” she adds, smiling.

“Did you drink your ginger tea?” he asks, stroking her cheek.

“Yes,” she answers, smiling at his concern for her. “But better safe than sorry, right?”

“Of course,” he agrees. “You look magnificent, Love,” he adds, leaning down to kiss her again.

“Hello, another person is in the room,” Jenny calls, and Abbie pulls away from Ichabod, giggling.

“Go,” she says. “See you in a few.” When she walks back to her sister, Jenny is shaking her head.

“You were saying _Joe_ has got the heart eyes?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. “He's got nothing on Ichy there.”

“Don't let him hear you call him that,” Abbie laughs. “He may not be a beast anymore, but…”

Jenny waves a dismissive hand. “I could take him,” she says. “Honestly though, I'm really happy for you guys. You've been through so much.”

“Thanks to you, you know,” Abbie says, taking her sister's hand. “If you hadn't decided to trespass, I'd still be cooking at the inn.”

“Well, hey,  _someone_ had to get you out of the house,” Jenny teases, laughing as she hugs her sister. “Come on. Let's get this over with,” she adds, laughing more as they walk to the door, hand in hand.

 

xXx

 

The wedding is short but meaningful, the bride and groom joining hands before the blind friar with Abbie and Ichabod attending. The entire thing took place in front of the large central rosebush, which started growing again after Abbie and Ichabod returned.

It is currently in full bloom, covered in _white_ roses, and, apart from the change in color, appears to be a very ordinary, if exceedingly beautiful, rosebush. Flowers bloom, flowers die, and Ichabod thankfully remains unchanged.

Ichabod had asked Henry if he had anything to do with the resurrected bush on one of his trips to see him, and the strange old man had neither confirmed nor denied any involvement. However, he did rather cryptically say, “I hope your wife enjoys the roses,” leaving Ichabod to draw his own conclusion.

There is food and celebration following the ceremony, and the few guests consist of Sophie and some villagers who frequent the inn. Everyone eats their fill and, as the sun starts to disappear behind the treeline, begin to depart for their homes.

The path leading to and from Crane Manor is now quite visible and well-worn now that Ichabod has become part of society. Luckily, Jenny had taken it upon herself to explain Abbie's whereabouts and Ichabod's sudden appearance while she was working at the inn, making sure to drop the right information with the right people so word would get around.

Abbie had to find out what, exactly, her sister had told them, because she knows it wasn't the truth. It turned out Jenny concocted a story about Ichabod having returned from some extended traveling. He allegedly came to the inn requesting assistance with getting his home back in order. “And since my sister is the most organized person in town, Joe and I suggested Abbie. Didn't know they were gonna wind up falling in love, but it was a nice bonus for both of them,” Jenny had said.

After they say their goodbyes to Jenny and Joe, Ichabod pulls Abbie into his arms, wrapping her in his embrace.

“Mmm,” she hums, closing her eyes and resting her head on his chest.

“You must be exhausted,” he comments, kissing the top of her head.

She nods, sighing contentedly. “It was a lovely wedding, but I am  _done_ ,” she agrees.

“We can clean up in the morning,” he agrees. Then he bends down and sweeps her into his arms.

“Too bad I'm not a witch,” she says, leaning her head on his shoulder as he climbs the stairs. “I could just wave my hand and –  _whoosh –_ everything would be cleaned up.”

“I don't think that's how witchcraft actually works,” he chuckles.

“It does in fairy tales,” she replies, lifting her head to look at him. He kisses her, then places her on the bed and begins removing her shoes.

“Yes, well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we are not living in a fairy tale,” Ichabod says. He sits on the bed, pulls her tired feet onto his lap, and begins massaging them.

“Aren't we?” Abbie counters, opening her eyes to look at him. “Because this sure feels like a 'happily ever after' to me.”


End file.
